Another kind
by tutb88
Summary: A second installment in Mystery AU. It happened all too fast. He didn't plan it properly, but everything worked out just great. He loved his new place, loved his work and was accepted by student populace. He found himself alone in the unknown town, many miles away from home, and abruptly realized that he was fine with it. He was always alone anyway, in a true sense of this word.
1. Chapter 1

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Spring, he soon discovered, was merciless in here. The beginning of April was marked by a snowfall, the likes of which he has never seen. It has instantly blocked roads in town. Even his morning classes had to be cancelled because of traffic disaster. All that snow didn't stay long, though. It continued shrinking day by day, losing its' pristine whiteness, turning ugly yellow and dirty grey, as it was disturbed by multiple town dwellers.

Thirteen days since the snow had fallen and it was almost gone for good, except for tiny piles of white curled in the most shadowy of places.

One of such snow patches was in his backyard. He saw it on Sunday morning when he forced himself to venture outside to clean said backyard a little bit. Snow was huddled under the ancient thorny bush.

The plant looked like it needed trimming, he thought.

As he took a step closer, wet, slippery ground beneath the sole of his boot made a loud squeak and Charles found his balance compromised. He fell on one knee and his right hand has closed around some random vine. Thorns tore through a rubber glove, piercing skin, and he cursed under his breath. When he attempted to relax his grip, he didn't manage to do it at once. Thorns got stuck and he had to help himself with his left hand.

When inside, he somehow got out of boots by the back door and went straight to the kitchen.

He reached for paper towels with his left, while holding his right hand under running tap. Some water went in through the tears and helped get rubber glued to his skin.

He cursed again while peeling the glove off with a nasty squelch.

Finally freed, his hand quickly got numb under cold stream. Charles caught only a glimpse of redness washed away, but it was enough to turn his mouth dry. Enough to call forth a pang of nausea. Along with twisting pain in his gut came dull ringing in his ears. And then, fatigue slammed into him so hard, that he saw nothing but darkness.

A blink — and he opens his eyes only to squint up at the ceiling through the blur. He breathes, in and out, and, gradually, numbness releases its' teeth. The blur fades away. Charles realizes: his back hurts and so does his head, which is predictable, seeing as he was standing by the counter and now he's down on the hard, wooden floor.

He stays on the floor for a minute or so, listening to purr of running water. Hypnotized by the sound, he closes his eyes. His heart is beating in his ears, it seems.

After he collects himself he gets up with a grunt, carefully avoiding looking at his bleeding hand. He hates how unsteady he is. He has to lean on the counter just to stay upright.

The tap. He needs to turn it.

Frustration is bubbling like sour champagne. It's tinted with vileness. Together, they coil around his chest and Charles gives in without fighting much, because he is fooling no one. Not himself.

On Friday, he hid the bottle. Today, it's time to pull it out again.

He leaves the kitchen cabinet in a mess, which doesn't bother him anymore. Sparing half a thought to fetching a glass, he then immediately drops that idea. As soon as a cork hits the counter he takes a heady swig. Then, some more. It takes exactly four mouthfuls to clear out the sour bitterness in his throat. When he puts the bottle down with a dull clang, the residual ringing in his ears turns into white noise. He feels heat spreading through his blood. His heartbeat gets slower.

Just fabulous, he decides. He drops on the chair, because his feet feel wobbly, and tilts the bottle again.

Scotch licks his mouth and throat with little fierce tongues. Its' taste is almost beautifully erotic.

When half the bottle is empty — his head is already sufficiently heavy and he feels a different kind of lazy numbness.

It's high time: he dares spare a look at his right hand.

Charles sees crusted blood in the crease of his raised palm and registers only dim echo of previous panic. Fear is not gone, but it's dim. Manageable. He cheers himself with a victorious swig.

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At night, among other mundane things covered with alcohol-induced fog, he dreams up a vivid one in which he is making his bed.

He puts a white fitted sheet on and tucks the corners around the mattress. He carefully flattens all creases and wrinkles and then notices that the other person, on the other side of the bed is doing the same. When he lifts up his eyes, he sees Erik.

"Let's put the top sheet on," says Erik, and Charles catches the edges of the striped, blue and white sheet, floating in the air right in front of his face.

They align the hem of the sheet with the head of the mattress. Patterned sheets are such a bother, thinks Charles meanwhile, making sure it is spread evenly.

"Listen, I've been wondering where you were," sighs Charles, "you disappear when you deem necessary — "

"Do I?" drawls Erik in mocking voice, folding his arms, and smirking at Charles from across the bed.

"Always," says Charles with conviction and wakes up covered in cold sweat.

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It was expected of Charles to undergo this procedure to sustain professional and personal benefits. And undergo it regularly. After an infamous cult case it clearly became a must. Counseling, and then supervision, is something he needs so badly, the assistance he has to accept if he wants to deal with what happened. Of course, Charles understood it. On the intellectual level he was totally on board. On the emotional, though, things didn't quite settle as he wanted them to. Therefore, that primal, raw part of his entire being dreaded this Monday afternoon like any anxious A-student might dread the end of term test.

After each of previous few sessions he would come back home drained and shaky and, despite his best reservations, his stock of spirits would drain day by day. She was getting a tad frustrated, but she never gave it away. Charles only could perceive her moods, because he has always been extremely sensitive. He was thinking that had he been in her shoes, he would probably redirect such patient to someone else.

The chairs in her downtown office are stylish contraptions, different from old-fashioned furniture he got accustomed to at the University. Truth be told, he'd prefer something with less metal ribs and more cushion plushness as harsh surface was irritating his sore back.

Emma surprised him with brown hair today. He was used to seeing her blond, so when he came in at a scheduled time he gave his surprise away.

It seemed she was pleased with his compliment.

"What happened to your hand?" she asked after he sat down on a chair she reserved for clients.

She looked up from scribbling a quick note in her diary. Now, with new hairstyle, her blue eyes became somehow more expressive and piercing than before.

"It appears there is a thorny bush in my backyard and yesterday I attempted to trim it. With dire consequences, as you may see," he speaks lightly, looking at a bandage.

Unbeknown to Emma, the bandage exaggerated the damage, but he was fairly paranoid about hiding the scratches from his own eyes. He couldn't afford going into shock at random sights of blood.

"Your mother used to look after the garden too, didn't she?"

He mentioned that bit, yes. Charles saw the path she was going to take and he played along.

"Yes, she was quite passionate about it. Though, she could afford not to do it. I'm glad that she discovered something to fill her days with. I believe that was akin to meditative experience for her."

"Is it the same for you?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I do it out of necessity rather than insistent need to get scratched by plants."

Emma leans back in her chair and smiles.

"We do need gardens, still. Maybe, this is some agricultural archetype speaking," she humored him.

"Or the spirit of downshifting?"

"I recall that police spokesman explained that members of Ogma cult treated sacrifices like offerings to the Garden of Youth. Those girls, slain in the isolated orchard," Charles shifted in his chair, suppressing a wince, as she continued. "Like part of metaphorical pagan harvest. I've been wondering all this time, was that your phrasing?"

"Well, only partially," confirms Charles slowly.

"Reporters," she hums, peering in the distance right above his shoulder, as though caught in a moment of vague reflection. Her next words cut to the bone. "What makes you think you should go on blaming yourself, Charles?"

She switched from small talk to direct question all of the sudden.

"I'm afraid, I can't do it today," he tries, emotionally exhausted to the point that he really can't say a word when it comes to this. Words just die before they live his lips and there appears to be an entire word cemetery taking over his mindscape.

"Can't you, actually?" this time she presses hard, unyielding. Her approach somehow balances on the edge of professional and outright offensive. "What are you thinking about? Feeling? Or, I'd say, what you aren't feeling?"

He knows that. He also can understand what her questioning expression probably means: _how much longer you think you can withstand_.

"Look, I broke the rules by following your request and not recording our sessions in any way. I can understand your concern. Besides, you've been involved in the recent investigation. General public is still reeling from it. And, I was fine with that. I was convinced that once I meet your needs you will be willing to cooperate," she pauses, pointedly looking into his eyes, searching. "May I wonder again? What happened to your hand?"

Shame pricked at him like a poisonous spike, for Charles had expected a different follow-up.

Today she is very good at catching him by surprise. Maybe, he's just getting slow. He is still overcome with hangover weariness.

"I was telling the truth," he says sincerely, feeling like a naughty six year old questioned by an overzealous nanny.

"All of it?" Emma tilts her head to the side, as though regarding him under a different angle gives her insights.

"After yesterday's accident, I pretty much figured that I've got a nasty case of haemophobia," he says reluctantly, thinking back to his extreme reaction.

"Have you ever experienced it before?" she touches the tips of her fingers together, looking concerned and wary.

"No, that never happened before," he nearly adds "I swear", but, fortunately, stops himself in time. Instead, Charles shakes his head a little too hard and the resulting pang in the back of his head is not pleasant.

"Why do you think such extreme reaction surfaced now? After all this time?"

They speak some more about it. And vileness wound around his chest squeezes him even harder than yesterday. She and Charles know what to do to overcome haemophobia. So their conversation sounds like a debate of two colleagues, which is a welcome change at the moment. Blood phobia is a condition, which is extremely common, and effective treatments have been utilized for years. What Charles doesn't share, though, is his own insight that his panic is but a mutated manifestation of a different kind of fear.

When his time is almost over Emma says, very evenly.

"I'm sure, you agree that you don't need my services anymore."

In lieu of immediate answer, Charles grabs the strap of his bag and hoists it up.

"Thank you, Emma," they share a long moment of silence, which is strangely comfortable. He is even more wrung out when he was before, but there it is, a tiny glimpse of peace flickering out or reach. At least, he can see it now.

This goodbye of theirs is full of so many unspoken things, that Charles' head might just spin.

On the bus, he, for the first time in ages, sits back and simply lets road rumbling filter through his mind. Lets his troubled thoughts flow by.

When he is about to open his house door, his phone buzzes, somewhere deep in the pocket. He reaches for it, noting that small tremors are sneaking through his hand. The caller ID reveals an unknown number he can't recognize. Charles looks at it. And looks. Until it dies abruptly and Charles, secretly relieved, gets ready to push it back in his pocket.

All of the sudden it comes alive again. And Charles blames his traitorous thumb for sliding across the display.

No choice, then, he decides, and presses his phone to his ear.

"Professor Xavier? Are you there? The signal's disappearing."

"Yes, I'm listening. Who — "

"Summers. Last time we met I was with Operations Division," he explains breathlessly, though his last name doesn't quite match his slightly distorted voice.

"You are," he strains to come up with a name. It suddenly frightens him, because his memory has always been exceptionally good when it comes to human interactions.

"It's Alex. I work for —"

"Yes-yes. I got it now, Alex," he says quickly. "Police. Of course. How can I help you?"

"We need your expertise. By we, I mean our Division, of course," his next words get swallowed by some harsh sounds in the background. "Can you spare us some time?"

Charles' mind is a blank void, whilst his mouth is saying yes.

And, as he does that, grey limbo opens up under his feet ready to devour him and digest for eternity. What the hell is he doing?

But then comes a thought that it's okay.

It's not necessarily some bloody business.

And if they ask him, it must be serious.

"Thanks. I'll call you back when I get out of this dead zone," Summers tells him.

"Alright," says Charles in the end.

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Beautiful and quiet Glirham should come across as a charming and very cultured town. There you can find dozens of different churches, almost as many museums, three large semi-Gothic cathedrals and genuine, albeit weathered, ruins of a Medieval castle.

There is one grand old University complex and three smaller branch colleges.

That is to say, Glirham University has always maintained a special, almost exclusive reputation in the scientific community. And though, it's not as celebrated as top establishments, one of which Charles has left almost a year ago, Glirham University has not been labeled a nurturing ground for life-altering minds for naught. It has been considered one of the most respected institutions in the field of natural and social science.

That fateful letter arrived last spring. Charles was rather surprised when he was offered a teaching post by the previous dean and, at that time, moving to a different place seemed like a welcome solution to his many problems. It happened all too fast. He didn't plan it properly, but everything worked out just great. He loved his new place, loved his work and was accepted by student populace. He found himself alone in the unknown town, many miles away from home, and abruptly realized that he was fine with it. He was always alone anyway, in a true sense of this word.

What started in October was akin to an avalanche. He was involved in an absurdly mysterious missing person's investigation and got acquainted with a police detective along the way. Exposure of a human-sacrificing cult running an exclusive drug business blew the entire town apart; the breaking news was awashed in both innocent and vile blood.

Right after Erik was shot, Charles' mental axis, badly jostled many times before, finally and infinitely lost balance and it hasn't been back to its' desired state ever since.

The last of his carefully maintained defenses crumble when Marcy's blood splashes onto his face.

Her acid hatred was burned into him like an iron stamp. Charles doesn't recall the policeman, who drove him back home, after he was pried from Erik's body and a medic made sure that he was unharmed. Some kind human being had the courtesy to usher his shaky, bloodstained self in their car and even walk him to his porch.

He remembers that woman from Erik's department coming to question him. Charles was retelling, answering, repeating the same story again and again. He was mad with desire to tell everyone what was really going on.

Eventually, that willingness sagged under constant tension and scrutiny.

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A tall building, housing police force, is now a familiar grey monument to this town's shrouded secrets.

Ruffled Alex meets him in the entrance hall. He has a black jacket on and his shoes and also the hems of his slacks are covered in drying mud.

"Nice to see you, sir," he says with a grateful nod.

Charles returns the sentiment and shakes the offered hand.

"Let's go upstairs. I'll introduce you to everyone and we'll start our debrief," motions Alex and turns to the staircase. "It won't take long."

"It's official this time?"

"Yes, you'll get a paycheck," he promises, though money is last thing Charles is worried about.

The Division's quarters have migrated to the third floor. The corridor walls are muted yellow. It seems to be much quieter, comparing to last time Charles has been there. As they turn around the corner, he hears Alex muttering a curse.

A thin man with parchment-like skin is a new Chief of Police. Charles knows that much. When he approaches them, Charles almost feels an incoming wave of projected disdain.

"Summers. I see, no matter how hard one might try get rid of it, filth just sticks," he mentions, pausing by Alex's side and glancing at his shoes with a raised eyebrow.

"Sir, I was —," Alex starts.

"Spare me," deadpans Shaw and lowers his voice, throwing a blank look at Charles. "I suggest you keep this one under tight wraps. We can't go on making nationals with mass burials and lost children."

He leaves briskly, not giving Alex any chance for redemption, which is a well-practiced and perfectly-timed move in Charles' opinion.

"I was in the countryside since morning. It's Mudfest in there," Alex turns to Charles, as though seeking his forgiveness. "That damned car broke down again."

"Have you got such strict dress code in here?" wonders Charles politely.

"We've got some dumb dress code," mutters Alex. "And here we are."

As Alex swings a door open to let Charles in first, a few heads turn in their direction. It's a small, pale, window-less meeting room with a white-board, a large desk, and a few rows of cheap chairs. Papers and folders are spread all over the desk with a single laptop. On the wall, near the door, there is a calendar with a print featuring apple trees in blossom. Red marker is circling today's date.

"You must remember Rose, Professor," says Alex and Charles does remember that brown-haired female detective, who he has come to associate with endless tension and notorious headaches.

Rose raises her head from her phone and offers him a small smile and a nod, so Charles berates himself for his unbecoming thoughts.

Charles learns that an older, mustached man, in the first row, is called Ellis. An incredibly attractive woman sitting next to him introduces herself as Danielle Moon. She looks like an ancient queen, with black hair long and shiny and a perfect face as still as a clay mask.

"Miss Moon is a fellow officer from Lake district. She is, erm, was a leading detective in a missing person's case," explains Alex for his sake. "We're going to join our forces, because our crime investigation unit is terribly undermanned."

"This is Sean," Alex nods to a young, lanky man, who seems to be even younger than Alex is.

Sean looks red-eyed and incredible sleepy. He is trying to stick a picture to the whiteboard with planner stickers. It keeps sliding down.

"Has anyone seen any magnets?" he turns, waving his hand around. "No?"

"I suspect, someone borrowed them again," grunts Rose and stands up to take the picture from him. "Just sit down and let me start."

Charles and Alex take their seats as well, whilst Rose is clearing her throat before she lifts up a picture.

It's a boy, realizes Charles. The blond, grinning boy in a red jacket.

"Our victim is Mark Evans. Thirteen year old. Mark's mother came to believe that he stayed at his friend's house after school on Friday. On the 31st of March. He texted her."

Two weeks ago, thinks Charles gloomily. It doesn't look good.

"I was in charge of interviewing the family and keeping them informed about the proceedings," picks up Danielle. "Ms. Evans, his mother, was used to Mark bulking up with his school mate. It happened all the time she said, that's why she didn't get worried. She had a shift in the hospital on Friday night, so she left. Tried calling him, but he didn't pick up. She then called the Smiths, the family he stayed with, and only after that she realized that something was really wrong…"

She produces a folder from her bag, resting on the free chair.

"I've forwarded all reports and records to you, but, just in case, here are printed lists with my field notes."

The man, sitting next to her, takes the folder and starts rustling through it.

"Do you need copies of these?" Ellis asks, raising his head.

His grey eyes are heavy and clouded.

"Oh, yes, later," says Alex, when Charles misses an opportunity to answer a question, apparently aimed at him.

"Thank you," he hurries to say, in order to dissolve the odd moment of silent staring.

Getting carried away is not something he can afford. He feels hot under his collar and regrets not taking the coat off altogether. Physical discomfort is only a fraction of overall unease, carried by notorious bugs crawling under his skin. Charles wills his thoughts back under reign, thus inevitably missing a few lines of dialogue.

"…in the woods, almost at the crossroads, yes. Snow's not gone there yet. I hope we won't find anyone else as it melts," finishes Alex a tad lamely.

Charles abruptly pictures Erik saying the same thing in a sarcastic drawl. That would sound completely different coming from him. Like natural extension of his tense, responsible attitude and edgy wit. Maybe, the only safe way to deal with terrible realities of this job.

Meanwhile, Rose is spreading pictures from the crime scene over the desk. Charles swallows a gulp. The one closest to him depicts a bluish shape of a human arm, peeking from the snow. Fingers are crooked as though aimed to grab something. Fingernails — black. Charles bites the inside of his cheek to distract himself from a nauseating sensation. Just like he thought: he won't be able to look at photos right now and not succumb to another panic attack. That established, he focuses his eyes on the safe image of a smiling, alive Mark.

"Remind me who found the body?" Sean asks, pulling the laptop closer to wake it up.

"Guys from a local road service," Alex sighs. "I talked to them this morning in person. Nothing new. They were just doing their job until one decided to go take a leak. We managed to identify him pretty fast only thanks to huge pile of snow he was buried in up till lately."

"When exactly did they find… Mark?" asks Charles.

"At a quarter past four, yesterday." Ellis fills in.

"If I'm going… I'd like to take a look at the place myself," Charles states, turning to Alex.

"I'll take you there, of course," nods Alex. "I haven't seen the full autopsy report yet. Is it ready?"

"Just a sec," retorts Sean, clicking on the folder.

"Well, at first sight, it is nothing like a ritualized sadistic fantasy."

Rose continues shuffling the pictures around the desk. She obviously doesn't have any problems with cataloguing almost surreal, blue and black gore.

"Thank god," mutters Alex. "Yes, you're right. It does look random. Violent, but random."

Charles begs to differ, but it's too soon to voice any preliminary arguments. Struggling with the wicked, twisting reptile in his gut, Charles takes a brief, sweeping look at the photos. He couldn't pinpoint it up till now.

"Where're the clothes?" he rasps and then has to clear his throat.

"Dunno," Alex rubs his forehead, exhaustion bleeding through cracks in his demeanor. "He's got nothing on, but underwear. That is what I've been trying to locate since morning. We really need more people, because I can't be in two places simultaneously."

"His mother said he was wearing a red jacket, a grey sweater, black pants and sneakers. Had a mobile phone, which went dead on Saturday afternoon. Also, a blue backpack, which is also gone," adds Danielle, picking up a smiling picture. "This jacket."

"Um, they won't give us a proper time of death because of "atmospheric conditions. It's approximately sixteen-fourteen days."

Rose takes to drumming her fingers against the desk.

"He was killed right before the snowfall. It's evident."

"And, Alex, man, you were right," out of all people Sean looks at Charles, "the kid was basically bludgeoned to death with some blunt object. It's not metal, they say, but other than that, they are not sure what it was. His right hand is broken in two places, which might suggest self-defense, or just a fall. To sum it up: not much skill, but a lot of effort. And, wait a moment, that's interesting: whoever it was they didn't target his head."

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The sky dome is grey with nasty, morning drizzle. Needles of rains slash against his kitchen window, whilst he is reflecting on his today's schedule.

Afternoon classes. What else? Charles makes a mental note to go through case files in the evening.

His mind goes blank for a stretch.

Thoughts — heavy and lazy lumps of goo.

He hears his own long exhale, coming, so it would seem, from the bottom of his chest. There's a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, waiting for him in pregnant silence.

The sound of doorbell is akin to a shriek.

The glimpse of the person outside reveals someone wearing a hooded raincoat, which badly resembles some generic character from a horror movie. The assault by the hooded stranger would be just perfect, he thinks sarcastically. He also ponders the ridiculousness of the current predicament: there's no way he can hear anything due to freshly soundproofed windows and tough doors.

Fully awake now, he still fumbles with the locks quite a bit. Those are new and expensive pieces he installed after a break-in. He only hopes that if they make him struggle so much, the hypothetical offenders would also be in trouble.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and opens the door a little.

"I see, you know how to take your time," Erik squints at him, and through the pounding of his own heart Charles doesn't hear his next phrase.

Not often at a loss for words, he struggles when he attempts to come up with something. Anything. A smart reply. A proper welcome. His mind shied away in the corner, numb, as though being hit with a tornado of different emotions was too much to handle.

"Hey, is everything alright?" Erik trails off, before squeezing through the gap inside and commenting. "Hm, you did some remodeling."

The door shuts with a dull thud.

"Are you… When did you come back?"

Caught in rapt astonishment spiced with fear, he watches as Erik shrugs off his hood.

He is so thin, almost translucently so. The bags under his eyes are dark smudges against ashy skin. Sadly, Charles isn't prepared to face him right now and, maybe, that's why it is just a perfect opportunity to do so. For his own peace of mind.

"I arrived yesterday," Erik frowns.

His thin lips form a downturned arch.

"Charles, I've tried calling you dozens of times. Alright. Forget it."

Charles wonders when Erik will notice how badly he's shaking at the moment.

Ah, he just did.

"I thought you were the calm sort," mutters Erik, sighing slightly. "Okay. I'll tell you how it was. I'll be brief."

"Maybe, you'd like to sit down?" Charles' lost voice is on the road back from abyss. It's scratchy as hell.

"No, just listen. I, well, when I first woke up and started, you may say, reconstructing the events of the day. It was very fuzzy, but I was trying hard. Then, I thought up the scenario where you were dead. Because, what else would I do, if I were the shooter?" Erik actually winces. "Seemed very rational to me: first, kill the cop; then, target the unarmed man. No one bothered to tell me about you, while I was lying there like a vegetable. Speaking was not an option. Right arm was paralyzed. Marie would come and read to me, which was actually nice. Summers would come to recite some irrelevant bullshit. A moron."

"I came to visit. Twice. But you were always asleep; I left your wife a book," having Erik tell him that only underlined what a miserable excuse for a friend he has been. "I am sorry, Erik. I am so sorry."

"Lord, I didn't come to blame you! You saved my life. If you hadn't performed CPR then, I'd have been dead. You should have heard how my doctor praised you. At first, I didn't know it was you, of course."

"I'm sorry," he can only repeat that, robbed of words again.

Because it was entirely different. For Erik suffered so much in his place; and Charles has embraced the injustice of it completely. His extra sensitivity, in rare moments, backfired like that. Instead of perceiving with utmost certainty what other might need or feel he finds himself buried under the broken dam. And he can't do a single thing about it.

"Sounds like we won't come to mutual understanding," Erik's tone is faux casual as he grabs a door handle. "I have a PT appointment. I'll be leaving. Honestly, Charles…"

Charles stopped trying to speak then. He cuts the distance between Erik and himself and wraps his arms around Erik. A touch awkwardly, because he doesn't know where to touch not to hurt. Erik's sleek raincoat is wet and so is his thin T-shirt now. The tacit _I missed you a lot_ went buried under the weight of great emotional shake-up.

Erik just sighs again and puts his hand, left one, right between his shoulder blades and Charles almost goes slack for a moment. It's unfair how much one touch can do.

"I'm glad you're fine. Relatively, but still," hums Erik, releasing him. "I do have PT. And I need to go."

"I can drive you," offers Charles immediately.

"Don't you have anywhere to be? Like work?" wonders Erik.

"Only at noon."

"Ph.D. people have the most packed of all schedules."

"That's not exactly true," retorts Charles, somewhat petulantly, falling back into teasing conversation routine. "I had to cut my workload this semester, because I knew I wouldn't be able to cope."

His honesty has an unexpected effect on Erik, whose face appears to darken.

"What is that?" he eyes the bandage, Charles has already got used to and therefore stopped paying attention.

"That's old, actually," Charles' hand twitches as he scowls, half-heartedly. "Please, stop. Don't forget that I know what you're thinking. It's profoundly obvious. Let me assure you, that you're wrong. I only did it once and for a good reason."

A touch disconnected, he has hard time thinking back to what happened to him. He knows for sure: it's a long fight he hasn't won yet, though he has battle scars and so does Erik.

But Erik wavers his hand in what Charles' interprets is: 'be is as you say.'

A car ride later, Charles learns how much Erik hated a convalescent hospital he was stuck in after his surgeries. He also has an opportunity to study the other's face: the rigid way Erik is moving his right shoulder. How he chooses not to extend his right arm, unless necessary. More than anything, Charles is struck by his hollowed cheeks and regrown hair, which has not been sprinkled with whiteness before.

Put simply, that bullet had almost killed Erik: it torn the top of his lung and fragments did more nerve and tissue damage than one might expect from a tiny metal piece. Whilst awareness of it pains him, Charles is saddened, deeply, with raw regret: Erik might have survived, but for a chance to continue breathing he had paid with a solid chunk of his life and his health. For all intents and purposes, it's irreversible.

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	2. Chapter 2

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"These studies support the idea that talking to yourself helps you concentrate. Actually saying the words out loud keeps you from getting distracted. It can also change the way people process visual information."

Charles clicks on the button to change the slides. There's something wrong with a projector though. The image blinks out of existence and instead of it, there is only white screen. Bugger.

"The slide, which doesn't want to be seen, tells about a recent study with 22 participants," he says to his audience, offering an apologizing gesture and a smile.

Even while his left hand is trying to wake his laptop from its hang state, he is looking right at the door up in the back of lecture theatre and that's why he sees Jean as soon as she as much as peeks inside. Their eyes meet, distance be neglected, and he announces.

"It seems, you're going to find out about this study on your own. I have to dismiss you a bit early."

It doesn't offend him anymore that there is a plenty of relived faces among the crowd. His lecture being their last class today and all.

Jean reaches the desk, whilst he is collecting his notes.

"I'm sorry for disturbing your class, but they appear so happy to get ten minutes of freedom."

"Yeah, it's only natural."

"Is something the matter?" she quietly asks, aware of some people still hanging behind.

"No, everything's fine," he says mechanically, frowning at the flickering mouse arrow on his laptop display. Some malfunction. Sighing, he just closes the lid. "Why —"

"I tried calling you, but you didn't pick up," she muses as she leans against the desk. "Anyways, Stryker insisted that you come see him. I realize that you'd rather decline and I told him that he could pass any work-related stuff through me. Like he has been doing all the time lately, but he was very, and I underline, very persistent."

Jean, gods bless her, took it upon herself to limit his interactions with the person who, she knew, might bring forth something worse than mere bad memories. There was a part of Charles grateful for this, but this part often had to silence the inner vain voice whispering of unnecessary coddling and overstepping the boundaries. How dares she! However, this was the same voice that always spoke of having another glass. As stood his priorities, Charles was interested in not surrendering the remaining reins of his life to that vile spirit inside him.

"You look better today," says Jean quietly when they are walking up the stairs and Charles wonders, silently, what she means.

He abruptly realizes that he hasn't really looked at himself for a while. Morning shaving and washing up is usually performed without any conscious effort. He neglected trimming his hair since autumn and, with arrival of winter cold, discovered that it warmed his ears and neck rather nicely.

Has anything changed? He will certainly look in the mirror when he gets home, decides Charles.

When he enters the office with half-drawn curtains, first thing that hits him is staleness. As though, it hasn't been aired for ages. Must be wrong, because Stryker likes his lair impeccably clean. Charles doesn't even see the dean as he's shuffling through some folders in the corner cabinet, partially hidden by shadows. He sort of blends in with the greying shadows in a way that makes Charles' skin crawl.

"Ah, Professor Xavier," his snobby voice carries crispiness and a touch of fake surprise, which, Charles thinks, is completely unnecessary.

Charles nods in greeting.

"It was somewhere here," Stryker grumbles and proceeds pulling the folders in and out, as if forgetting about Charles altogether.

By this point, Charles only taps his fingers against his thigh, looking around idly. He launches into cataloguing the differences for the sake of killing time.

Since his last visit, there are fewer pictures on the walls. There was a bronze eagle paper holder on the desk, which he can't see anywhere now. Stryker's computer is a modern, sleek thing. Its red sleep mode indicator is blinking at Charles slowly. Beside it, there rests an empty glass. A few drops can be spotted on a well-polished table-top. Looks like he splashed some, Charles ponders distractedly, and then he knows where the staleness came from. A suffocating fug of too warm, too dry air with a whiff of hangover. He is no stranger to the latter himself.

Stryker hums something and pulls out a thin file, from which Charles deduces that his search has come to a victorious end.

"The request you filed last November," Stryker finds the courtesy to explain. "Free Counseling and Psychological Services for students."

"Well," Charles says. "You declined."

Stryker appears a tad surprised, almost lost. An old, bleak-eyed man, whose suit has become two sizes too big for him and he didn't even manage to notice.

"Goodness… You don't remember," states Charles calmly, though his calm is essentially as genuine as Stryker's earlier surprise at seeing him.

"No, no, I do," he shakes the file for emphasis and returns to his desk.

Charles doesn't have to be hawk-eyed to detect a tremor pulsing through the man's arm as he is trying to hold on to the pen.

"Sir," Charles clears his throat and waits till Stryker raises his head. "Sir, you need help. Have you seen anyone? Any therapist, I mean? Since your wife's death?"

Stryker makes a grimace as if he's ready to spit at him. Only, it's not threatening at all. Charles briefly closes his eyes, before mustering his resolve. Then, he pulls out a chair and sits, coming down to Stryker's eye level.

"For this to work you need to be ready. Nothing in the world could have prepared you for this. You are now alone with your suffering. Even worse: everything you thought you knew about… her. It was all wrong," Charles watches his contorted expression intently, whilst speaking softly, deliberately slowly.

He wants every word to sink in the black hole and emerge on the other side, transformed.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions, sir. You may choose to ignore me. Though, I suggest, you listen. What is the first thing, which comes to mind when you see her picture or when someone mentions her name? And what feeling follows that thought?"

Stryker splutters indignantly. Then, hangs his head. And starts muttering: phrases that don't connect; scrambled sentences with seemingly no meaning.

To ground himself, Charles grabs the armrests very tightly, thinking that it was stupid of him, that he can't help anyone before he helps himself, that he is so not ready.

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Meeting with Stryker ends exactly like it should have ended. He expected to be squeezed and wrung out like a rug and wrung out he was.

On the way home his slow feet lead him to the supermarket. Among eggs, milk, butter and groceries, there appears a bottle in his trolley. It's an expensive one, because, who knows. Maybe, Erik will drop in again.

Whilst Charles is unpacking, a text from Alex arrives. Alex apologizes. He won't be able to drive him to the crime zone tomorrow. That reminds Charles that he still hasn't touched the case folder he's been given.

It's resting on the coffee table next to the sofa in his living room, which has already become something akin to thinking room.

It's either having a dinner or looking through it and maybe having a dinner later. But there is a nudge in the back of his mind, somewhere well beyond his reach, which insists that he should look into it now.

Charles falters for a fraction of second.

"I don't have any choice, right?" he murmurs and goes upstairs to change.

When Charles sags into his favorite armchair, he already has an idea in mind. Pictures carefully pushed aside, he opens the copy of a coroner's report.

" _Internal bleeding occurred. Blood vessels inside the body are torn or crushed. Supposedly, this kind of trauma was inflicted by a blunt object."_

He swallows hard, but tells himself that it's fine. It is really easier with words than with pictures.

Hemothorax mentioned in the report stands for bleeding around the lungs. Inferior vena cava, which carries blood into the right atrium of the heart, was also torn by fragments of shattered ribs. Liver displays multiple lacerations. The same could be said about the spleen.

Internal bleeding hurts like hell. It would feel as though someone put your insides on fire. Charles thinks of car crash victims and their organs squashed by sudden blunt force. What was done to Mark was no such accident. It was deliberate. Like a slow form of execution. Like death by torture. An idea of stoning is weaving its way into his head; the concept of brutal punishment is what might have driven the attacker. Or attackers. And the insane, poisonous joy of watching a human go down under onslaught, the excitement in making a living being submit to death. That power play.

Charles looks up at the ceiling, as though looking for clues written on white. He is aware that should he let his eyes fall shut, the pictures will spring to mind in all their horrific vibrancy and he wouldn't be able to keep his presence of mind.

"Mark didn't faint at once. He didn't go down with the first blows," he says out loud, feeding grim words to shadows. "He tried to protect himself. Got his hand broken. That," Charles pauses, "that could have made them angrier. Even fiercer."

Somehow Mark was still upright. Maybe, running. Or, trying to. Charles lets his imagination work and scenarios unfold gradually, one worse than the other.

With apprehension, Charles mentally catalogues everything he can imagine and gets up to snatch a pencil. However, instead of writing, he mindlessly twists the pencil in between his fingers as he moves to stand by the window and watch how it starts raining again.

Finally, Mark was down on the cold ground. Everything around him was a pulsing blur of pain; every breath was a torturous challenge. He could taste acid, heavy blood on his tongue, feel that blood being pushed up his throat by a nauseatic paroxysm. He probably coughed it out as it had been staining his mouth. He probably was curled there as his body assumed instinctive protective position, and he was already aware that he was going to die. That overwhelming pain Mark was feeling would have pulled him under just too deep. It was possible, Charles wants to believe so, that he blacked out upon falling down and didn't feel a thing afterwards. Though, something tells him that was not what the attacker would have wanted.

Suddenly, a dark shadow flickers into existence right by the window and Charles snaps the poor pencil in two, startled. The doorbell comes alive too and Charles hangs his head, letting out a nervous huff. Goodness, he thinks, this state of his is really not a joke.

He intuitively knows that it's Erik even before opening the door.

"Erik," he swings the door open and lets in the man.

Outside air, which filters in, is cool and wet and smells like night rain.

"You didn't tell me that Summers got you involved in a case," states Erik flatly, no time for niceties and decorum apparently.

"Well, good to see you again so soon," says Charles sarcastically and turns around. "When you hang your coat by the door, please, come find me in the kitchen."

Erik behaves like Charles owes him explanations. Charles can reluctantly admit that Erik's behaviour used to be finely justifiable in the beginning: Charles unthinkingly opened up a whole new can of worms then and nearly got Erik killed for that matter. Now, though, it's a completely different situation and Erik needs to understand this.

The bourbon, he bought earlier, is conveniently standing on the counter, gleaming dully.

Erik eyes the bottle with a raised eyebrow and rather emotionless face. Honestly, he looks as grey as the sweatshirt he is wearing.

"Would you?" Charles offers him a glass and Erik takes it with little to no hesitation.

"No ice?" he asks.

"Sorry. Nope," Charles brings his own glass to his lips and the inhaled hint of heady aroma makes his head swirl.

He drinks with his eyes shut and when he opens them again, he discovers that Erik is watching him, without having taken a sip of his drink.

"Why would you do that?" grumbles Erik, staring at Charles as if he has forgotten how to blink.

"Do what?" and then Charles catches up. "Agree to help the police? They asked, and, as I mentioned before, my schedule this semester allows me to take up additional jobs."

Erik looks down into his glass, swirling the liquid around slowly.

"I saw you invested in it a bit too much. This is the job for a certain type — "

"Let me guess? I'm not that type," interrupts Charles, for that anger lying dormant inside, leaks free. "Erik, I would be very grateful if no one, nor you, nor someone else, told me what to do. Or undermined my decisions."

Saying it is like poking at torn flesh. Yet, there's something more disturbing. There's something infinitely wrong about having this particular conversation. Erik, coming to reprimand him, because he what? Worries? Erik and he are too close, realizes Charles abruptly. The realization is like a bucket of cold water poured on his head. It's true. They didn't even need that much time to get used to each other. They just did. And Charles would be lying if he claimed that he didn't feel that connection. Not just the hurt of Erik nearly dying or the startling pleasure-ache of seeing him again.

"I'm sorry," Charles says harshly. "You don't need to be on the receiving end of my spectacularly bad day."

"Don't be," Erik finally drinks from his glass. "I'm wrong too."

"When are you going to come back to work?" blurts Charles, partially to fill the silence and also because he's curious.

"If," Erik gives him a one-shoulder shrug. "Physical evaluation is soon and I still can't tighten the grip for more than ten seconds."

Erik looks down at the offending limb with tightly pressed lips.

To do something with his hands Charles snatches a bottle and silently offers to refill Erik's glass.

Erik nods and holds it out for him.

"I'm not you, of course. I haven't got any human researching degrees like you do —"

"I wonder what's yours?"

Erik grins darkly and salutes him with a glass.

"History and Literature Major initially. So, as I was saying, because of my work I learned a lot about people. Unfortunately."

Charles smiles at that.

"But I have experience on my side," adds Erik empathetically and the mood shifts back to solemn. "Summers told me about the kid. It doesn't look good."

"Quite bad, actually," murmurs Charles, frowning at Erik's hardened expression.

"Exactly," nods Erik. "That's why it's too much for you right now. Don't think that I'm undermining your decisions. I'm stating the fact as I see it."

"That's very comforting," mutters Charles and then an idea appears. "I'm not going to quit halfway, but since you're free, you can come with me. To have a look at the crime scene, at least."

"I was going to come with you anyway," says Erik magnanimously and Charles starts having second thoughts about his offer.

Erik's rough audacity is not something he missed, he tells himself, but it rings like self-deception.

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Police tape is wet, with tiny droplets of rain hanging on for dear life. Very soon they will lose a fight with gravity and fall downwards, only to be absorbed by black muddy soil.

Charles tilts his head up to peer at ripe grey clouds hanging low over the woodland. Unlike Erik, he's not wearing rain boots, and that means that should the sky burst with rain, his suede shoes will not stand a chance.

Erik is standing by the tree Mark was found under and he is looking at the ground. There's not a trace of snow as far as Charles can see. All whiteness is already soaked within greedy ground. Beneath their feet there is a very sticky carpet of last year's foliage.

"That damn snowfall has ruined it for forensics," states Erik brusquely. "It helped preserve the body, more or less, but otherwise…"

"Erik, what do you think about the clothes?"

"Clothes may be our trump card. If that's some kind of fetishist, there's a solid chance that he kept it. What do you think?"

"I'm not sure. Not yet."

The place is too bleak — that is the only thing that comes to mind when he looks around. Rows upon rows of bare aspen trees resemble needles sticking out of the ground, as though they are a part of an elaborate trap with multiple pointy teeth.

That's right.

These are not just woods. It was someone's hunting ground.

Charles circles the tree Erik is now leaning on one more time.

"He could have gotten here by bus, by car, or by bike," says Erik. "There's a bus stop on demand by the crossroads. Summers said that he already talked to bus drivers. Nothing. No one remembers the boy."

"If there was a car, police won't be able find out what car it was. On the other hand, the bike," Charles pauses. "Come to think of it, plenty of children own bikes in here. Lots of students too."

"Yes, this town is very eco-friendly," Erik grunts in agreement. "Come on, Charles. Let's go back."

Whilst the road is closing in, Charles is counting the steps from the spot where the body was found to the road. He gets about twenty.

"I wonder," he asks out loud, "was it possible for him to escape?"

"Not likely."

Erik is right, of course.

When they get in the car, light drizzle begins. Charles starts the car and looks in the side mirror; he discovers that the mirror is fogged up and cranes his neck to check the road.

"You didn't find what you were looking for," observes Erik.

Charles turns to reply and that's then, through a passenger's window on Erik's side, he sees a boy. The boy in the bright red jacket is standing on the opposite side of the road.

"Charles?"

"I think, I found something," Charles blinks and the phantom disappears.

"Care to share?"

"I couldn't picture Mark up till now," explains Charles, meeting Erik's eyes. "I couldn't see him properly if you will."

"I'm not sure I understand, but fine," says Erik slowly.

They drive back in silence until Charles can't help himself anymore. At the road lights he clears his throat.

"Erik, please, don't get me wrong. I don't want to question you needlessly," he feels that it's necessary to specify this.

"What's with the prelude? If you want to ask, just ask."

"What are you planning to do? With your job, I mean. I know that you only moved here recently —"

"You're asking me whether I'm going to leave or stay?"

Charles takes a quick look at Erik's profile, nicely outlined by falling darkness.

"I probably won't leave. But I can't go on enjoying injury leave on full pay any more," he smirks ruefully. "I asked to be allowed to undergo standard evaluation like the rest. I guess, I wanted to set a deadline for myself, to get back into shape sooner."

"And now you see that it won't work out," finishes Charles for him.

"Well spotted."

Maybe it is wrong to smile, but Charles does it, thinking that warm relief he's feeling now was worth that earlier portion of awkwardness.

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Apartment complex where Miss Evans lives is near the park, which circles University. The building is one of the oldest in the area and it shows. Stairs leading to entrance doors are in need of a good sweep, notices Charles. Cigarette butts and candy wraps are prudently gathered in the corners. A pink bubble gum is sticking to the door just on his eye level.

"Huh? No, I'm pressing it alright," Alex says, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder. His other hand is occupied with a thick folder.

He pushes a button on the intercom again, wearing an impressive scowl.

"Are you sure it's working, mam?"

Someone pushes the door open from the other side. An old lady comes out. She has a tiny dog on the leash. On seeing Charles the dog rushes to him and he has to take a step back.

"Never mind, that's alright," hurries to say Alex. "We're coming. What floor is it, again?"

The stairs are poorly lit. Charles abstains from giving local smells their appropriate names.

Instead, he pictures Mark running down the same stairs in the morning and climbing up late in the afternoon. Charles spent yesterday's evening reading the school reports, which described Mark as a generally quiet kid with some unauthorised absence accidents. His grades were getting worse recently, so his mother was going to come to school, but she didn't manage to. Being a teacher himself, Charles understands that he has, unwillingly or not, become a part of conspiracy. Because there's a little secret the generations of educators are unwilling to divulge to youngsters: grades don't matter. It's often the people with the audacity not to care about them, who come to the top. Mark, in spite of his academic failure, might have been one of those.

Alex rings the door bell and a short pale woman in a baggy sweater and ripped jeans opens it. The only colourful thing on her face is her thick, black mascara, which makes her dull eyes almost offensively outlined. She and Mark have the same sandy hair. That's where the similarities end.

All three of them shuffle in a small kitchen, where, on the table next to the open window, a miserable cigarette is still burning, laid on the saucer. There are four pots with what seems like violets on the wide windowsill. The lone cactus plant looks like it has survived a fall. Its clay pot happens to be cracked.

Alex jumpstarts a conversation, pulling out the papers from his folder and spreading them on the table. He needs these and those signed and he is sorry for bothering her again. Someone in the registration office has misplaced the originals. She just nods and takes the offered pen.

Charles is not the only one who registers a thud and something like a groan just behind the wall. Alex perks up too.

"Excuse me," she puts the pen down and slides past dubious Charles.

"She is taking care of her old mother," mutters Alex, scanning the paper with his eyes. "That's all. I also need to make a few phone calls. Will be down in the car."

"You don't need to wait for me."

"Are you sure?"

"Definitely. You must be busy, so I'd hate occupying your time."

"You have no idea," Alex looks up. "Ah, miss Evans, thank you very much. We're done. If you don't mind, Professor Xavier would like to ask you a few questions."

"I don't," she slides back into kitchen, carrying a tray with dirty dishes, which she dumps in the sink.

After Alex leaves, and she and Charles are alone in her cramped kitchen, Charles lets the silence stretch: not because he aims for tension, but because he wants her to take the reins.

"I think, I read about you somewhere," she utters flatly. "Missing girls. The Mayor getting shot. Cops cutting down people. You don't believe that shit like that can happen in your neighborhood until it happens. What do you need to know?"

"I'd like to know who Mark's friends were. Did he ride a bike? Collected anything? Personal stuff?" Charles glances around the kitchen. "He was, perhaps, a tad temperamental lately. I'll take a risk to presume that you were relieved at times when he stayed over at his friend's house. That makes… No, I'd say, made you experience extreme surges of guilt and self-loathing, which transformed into apathy."

"I don't know: should I tell you to get out or not…"

"You should start taking antidepressants for starters," Charles picks up the pen Alex has forgotten in a rush. "A piece of paper? May I?"

Out of a paper bag she digs up a leaflet, offering a discount on special days, and Charles writes down a phone number on the corner.

"Please, call this number as soon as you can. This help-line is absolutely free and anonymous. You need to take care of yourself," he offers the leaflet and waits, patiently, until she lifts a hand to take it back.

"Why give this to me?" she asks in the same flat tone, but quieter.

"There is no right answer. Maybe, because you're alive and suffering and this is the kind of pain you can't deal with on your own," as Charles realizes what he is saying, he stops. For he's been talking to her, but, it appears, he's been talking to himself as well.

She stares at the number as though processing what he said is hard.

"I, um… I'll bring you his scrap-book," with this she disappears again, but Charles is glad that she folds the leaflet carefully and takes it with her. She might use it, after all.

What she calls the scrap-book is a sketch book, which belonged to Mark. It's full of clumsy sketches of a bigfoot and a kraken and other amazing things, which might just share the planet with humans. Cryptozoology is a very interesting pseudoscience, indeed. Amazed at multiple fantastic creatures and the imagination that brought them to life, Charles turns page after page.

"These days we don't have picture albums. Everything's online," she says and puts a photo on the table.

Charles immediately recognizes Mark, because he's the only fair-haired boy in the picture. He is one of a few kids standing in a lobby of some sort.

"That was a class trip to, uh, some museum. I honestly don't recall which. This is Daniel Smith," Mark's mother taps a finger on the chest of a lanky boy, who is almost out of the frame.

"His friend?"

"It seemed so," replies she and then darts a sharp glance Charles' way. "Why did you ask about the bike?"

"Just curious," he gazes back, but she doesn't want to meet his eyes and turns away.

"Someone stole his bike. Before that snowfall? Yes, before. Like a week before cold came back."

"How did it happen?"

"He said, he left it chained by the bench, when I… I sent him to the supermarket. I don't really remember."

The decision to walk was a good one, seeing that Friday evening was surprisingly warm and rainless for a change. Charles could practically smell the spring taking over the last winter strongholds. The sunset visible through the gaps between the trees is magnificent.

While searching for clues among Mark's things was fruitful, he now tries to withdraw his mind from a repetitive circle of chanting _hostile, aggression, trigger, pleasure, punishment._ But, no matter how hard he tries to silence his buzzing mind, it doesn't work well.

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	3. Chapter 3

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This late stroll did him good: calm and quiet of sleepy town penetrated his heart. Charles realizes how much he needed that. The good deal of walking finally takes him to his street.

The street is a long straight stretch of similar brick walls, painted roofs and fences adorning lit road, so he sees a taxi parked almost at his gate from afar. And someone wearing a red scarf, in a long beige coat, Marie, probably, emerges from the gates, pulling a black rolling case behind her. Charles remembers Marie as a quiet and serious woman with a frown curved deep in her forehead. She is one of those people who don't know how to show their distress, what to do with their hurt: it gets bottled up inside, but dark fumes hang around them like a smog cloud. Back then, they still didn't know whether Erik would pull through or not, so at that time Charles came to admire her collected persona. They have had a few brief conversations, finally got acquainted, but he knew next to nothing about her and that was not a right time to get familiar.

The entire street is completely silent and deserted. Therefore, all sounds are tuned up. Every scrap and shuffle cuts through crisp air, bends towards the ground and reaches his ears. Charles watches the driver get out, help her put the case in the trunk and then she slides into the backseat and is gone. Scratchy sounds produced by case wheels are then overvoiced by rough purr of engine. The taxi drives by. With natural curiosity, Charles turns to look, but Marie has turned her head in an opposite direction.

The sudden, spontaneous hunch makes him glance at their door then: it is still half-open. Light is spilling on the porch. His decision to go and see how Erik is doing is half-excusable because of that. He is determined to ignore no small idiosyncrasies of his attachment to the man, because they might just be too overwhelming right now. After all, Charles couldn't entirely forgive himself; even now he's the prisoner of the moment when he was pressing his hands atop of Erik's chest, feeling blood pooling underneath. He shudders a little, willing an image away.

To warn Erik of his presence Charles first knocks on the door and then calls him. When he hears nothing in response, he hesitates. Charles glances inside only barely. A white something on the floor looks like a shard. The strapped doormat is askew: across it, there is a green and yellow bottle of waterproof spray lying sideways. It lies there like a small, but significant mark on the household landscape. Charles doesn't know what else makes him think that, yet he starts suspecting that Marie didn't just leave in a hurry.

The sound of the crack, close at hand, makes him turn around.

"What," Erik is coming to him quickly, "are you doing here?"

Charles must have missed him, because it looks like Erik has just appeared from behind the house. Emerged from the dark, so to say.

"The door was open, so… Sorry to disturb," Charles smiles slightly and holds up the palms of his hands, suddenly feeling that his presence is unsolicited at the very least.

Erik comes up closer to the light patch. His words or, rather, his chilling tone send Charles' hard won calm to the places far away from here.

"Why, you should come and check. Who if not you?" Erik embosses each word into metal and Charles sees now that he's frighteningly pale. "Do you have any idea how this snooping may end eventually? Or have you got nothing else to do?"

"I'm sorry, again. I'll be going," says Charles simply, scarcely understanding what is going on with the outburst.

He mutely shakes his head, coming to a belated conclusion that Erik is angry. Maybe, with Charles' uninvited arrival, or maybe not. To be honest, Charles is not really that eager to find out.

He makes a move to go, but Erik grabs the lapel of his coat and doesn't let him. Charles darts his eyes down at Erik's right hand, which he is trying to clench into a fist. He looks up and realizes that the metaphor of flashing eyes would be a spot on.

"Erik, calm down," Charles clasps Erik's wrist, the one clenching his coat. "I must admit I don't know what's going on with you. But, if you want, you may tell me. If you don't want, that's fine too. Now, please, let go of me."

"You don't understand!" Erik exclaims, pulling him closer by force so that Charles has to lean forward and seethes. "You stick to me out of guilt. I'm sick of it."

Erik is still talking, but, to his shame, Charles can't discern a thing: his ears are ringing, nausea twists his gut into many knots and cold runs down his back, just like it happened earlier with those blasted thorns. The cool observer inside him states that Erik is not talking to him, but to his imaginary enemy, and Charles simply happened to arrive at the wrong time. This incident, however, proves that Charles' anxiety is rooted deeper than mere fear of the sight of blood. This inner voice is rational, and, perhaps, is right. The problem is — Charles can't do right. Hit by a whirlwind of the other's scorn, he's also awfully, terribly stunned, embarrassed and most of it — irrationally terrified. Fear is fast to creep into his veins and course through his blood; as though he inhales thought-erasing panic with oxygen.

The changes in Erik become physical as well as mental. His expression, so rarely softened, transforms into a twisted furious mask. The strength of his emotion seems almost omnipotent.

Charles can't think of nothing save the wish to break free. He tugs at Erik's hand, forgetting that Erik is too fired up to relax his grip. Erik, though, interprets his actions in his own fashion. He twists them around, pushing Charles back and away. Charles snaps his head to the side and a split moment of pain, when everything he sees is black, actually wakes him up.

It is so clear at that moment: Erik, his eyes wide in shock, his hand raised and frozen mid motion, night street silent still, and Charles, who has just banged the side of head against the door jamb — he swears that pain has paused before kicking in. All what happened refracts back towards Charles, makes him wince at the ridiculousness of the situation. After stuffing pulsing pain back, as it's not that bad, fortunately, Charles straightens up. There is a pendulum in his mind, swaying between his own anger and embarrassment, and embarrassment prevails.

"I'm sorry," he quickly mutters, choosing the lamest of all alternatives in the end.

And he is almost disappointed at the lack of any response from Erik. Charles wants to go on, to say something, but stops himself, because, frankly, he'd rather keep silent while his nerves are tingling dangerously, as if his brain has just been electrocuted.

Erik only breathes out hard, sets his lips firmly together and Charles fails to understand what he is thinking. He fails to do a lot of things lately.

He walks to his porch, committed to a definite course: a glass of something to help him sleep and a bed.

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After a night full of strange, tormented flashes of thought and feverish dreams that left him feeling ill, Charles is conscious of somehow moving to square one: he is avoiding Erik on purpose again. He finds it a little bit more difficult than before, because now Erik is at home; he's even come to call Charles' doorbell on Saturday afternoon, which Charles has wisely switched off beforehand — yes, he caught a glimpse of Erik, standing on his porch, through a gap in drawn curtains. He watched his black shadow shuffling back and forth. Erik was as persistent as expected, of course. Charles, although, put an end to a waiting game himself, by simply stepping away from the window. He thought he was allowed just a tiny fraction of smug satisfaction with bitter aftertaste. The gratification of a nefarious kind he can hardly confess he enjoys. But at times like these he does.

While walking down his street to the bus stop on Monday morning and pondering over his routine for the day to come, Charles feels incredibly warm. He blinks in a belated realization that the sky is crystal clear, the birds are chirping maniacally, and the green grass is trying to pierce the earthly skin, and he has overdone it with the thicker than necessary coat.

His department head intercepts him in the corridor after his last lecture of the day. She gestures for him to step to the side, and she leans against a large windowsill. Charles steps up nearer, as he mutes the background noise of stomping feet and an occasional burst of laugh, while focusing on what Diana is saying.

"It's nice to talk to you at last, Charles," she says in a way that throws Charles off kilter.

He finds a distraction in the buzzing of his phone, so he takes it out of his pocket, sees A. Summers flash across the screen and swipes it away.

"It's also nice to see that your phone is in working order," Diana adds.

Charles is so tired all of the sudden that the apology is very heavy on his tongue.

"My apologies," he utters and muses that his deep sigh must appear a bit exaggerated.

Diana shakes her head and folds her arms across her chest.

"First, a publishing date is coming up. Secondly, Graduate Admissions Committee is asking you to supervise Priest."

"She can't be bothered to prepare a decent presentation for a conference," Charles frowns. "I usually support giving people the second chance or, in this case, even the tenth chance to redeem themselves, but I can't comprehend how she got that far in the first place. I refuse."

She nods, seemingly content with his answer.

"Are you working for police again?"

"Well, yes."

"Hm, it's good for publicity, I guess. My nephew works there and he told me, if you're wondering."

Charles' phone screen flashes one more time and Diana bids him goodbye.

He calls Alex back when he shuts his office door and puts his bag on the desk.

Alex picks up after the first ring.

"It's about the case," he says. "Have you got a minute?"

"Yeah, Alex. You've got news?" Charles sits down, grateful for the familiar coziness of his chair.

"I've been to school. Spoke with the kids. If you can call it that, because it was, well," Alex clears his throat. "Anyway, can you look through reports today? The interviews were recorded, so I sent them too. Should already be in your mailbox. I talked to Daniel Smith, Mark's best friend, too. He's, I don't know, Professor. I'd like to hear what you think."

"Alright," Charles mentally calculates the amount of time he needs to finish his article and to do the rest. He'll be staying up late. "Who are the others? Classmates he socialized with at school?"

"From what I've heard, I assumed, that he was best buddies with Smith, but often seen together with two others: Bryce Harper and Bob Hoggs. They are, kind of…"

"Alex, did their behavior appear unusual?"

"Kind of strange. But they are shocked and tense. Who wouldn't be, right?"

"Of course," he rests his elbows on the desk, staring at its dark polished surface. "Anything else?"

"The list of suspects now includes his mother's ex, who is out of town, but he left about two weeks ago, school personnel, parents of his classmates, neighbors and etcetera. I'm counting on your help, because we need to make this list as short as possible."

"Understood."

The sound of the incoming text effectively breaks the spell he used to be under all evening and Charles rubs his eyes.

He cranes his neck back and to the side, while his eyes take in the darkness pouring through the window.

He stands to circle his desk and opens it.

Alex is right. He is good at listening to his gut.

Charles has listened to those three boys: Bruce, Bob and Daniel; and he arrived at the same conclusion. Though, he regretted not being present during the interview, because visual clues like body language give away a lot. Audio wasn't bad: he caught sequences of pitch change and unnecessary details in their speech patterns. These alone should be enough to trigger warning bells. Bob was the only one who would stutter and hesitate when asked the question. But all of them spoke of the same things: hanging out after school, riding bikes to places, watching movies and playing games together. Their recital of friendly routines was too _routine_ for Charles' taste.

That was not the story of Mark.

There is one problem with lies though. Especially, if lies are being transferred from one person to another…

When cold air numbs his fingertips Charles shuts the window and presses his forehead against cool glass.

He needs a break after this.

A sufficient, long break he denied himself all this time. Probably, some mindless partying on some gorgeous, sunny beach will do him good. He'd like to feel warm wind in his hair, heat on his skin, cold drink in his hand. He has been missing intimate touches and that sort of wordless, primary communication that comes along with sex too. Since he moved here, to be precise.

The problem is — the indulgence he's trying to picture now seems oddly alien to him.

Like an echo.

Yes, he wants to get back in his past self's skin. Very much so. There is one but — he's already grown out of it.

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###

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Smith senior is a bulky, tall man in his late thirties, who is staring at Charles from across the table. His son is also tall for his age, but slim and long-limbed. His features are on the delicate side. And, to his credit, Daniel doesn't move with uncoordinated awkwardness expected of a growing teenager. Just by looking at him, Charles detects a reserved, thoughtful personality.

"How many times do I have to come here?" asks Smith.

"I'm sorry for inconveniences, sir," Alex retorts in a voice that suggests that he's not sorry at all. "But this is a standard procedure. We interview relatives, friends of victims to gather crucial details and —"

"I prefer the pretty one. Long, black hair. If I'm to be interviewed, I want it done by a lady. What is she called? Ah! She's got almost the same name as my kid here."

"We're interviewing your son today, not you."

Alex's polite expression looks like a plastic mask, thinks Charles.

"So, Daniel," starts Charles, throwing Alex a cautious look, "could you, please, describe Mark for me?"

"He has done it what? A dozen times?" says Smith snidely, but his son is already talking.

"He, uh, he got kind of weird this term, but he was alright. He used to like drawing," Daniel goes on reciting his earlier speech and Charles continues watching him with a warm half-smile.

Daniel tells him that Mark didn't crash his place as often as he used to. Said that his grades were worse and his mother insisted on him studying at home. While Daniel is talking, his eyes jump from his father to tabletop, back and forth. His says nothing new, of course. Charles was expecting as much. On the day of Mark's disappearance, which is also the assumed date of his death, Smiths were at home. Rose has talked to their neighbors and they confirmed that they saw lights and heard their raised voices, because, apparently, Smith's household was far from quiet.

Charles steps out after a while and joins Danielle Moon in the observation room. She turns to him with a dark look in her eyes.

"Why is Summers wasting his time like that?"

"I asked him," Charles retorts mildly. "We're going nowhere, because they are lying. I need to find out why."

"Smiths have an alibi. They argued throughout that night. After the snowfall they had to spend that entire day at home," she makes a point.

She has probably forgotten that Charles has access to witness reports as well. Instead of reminding her, Charles focuses on watching the screen. The father and the son are finally leaving the room. Daniel is the first to stand up. His father pushes his chair away from the table and throws another snide remark, which Alex meets with a shake of his head.

Charles times it carefully. When the Smiths are almost out of the earshot, but not quite, he quickly approaches Alex, who is just coming out of the room.

"Great news, detective," he says, "they have found it."

Alex straightens up and darts a wary look back, as though to make sure that nobody is listening.

"Finally! It's high time we got something."

Charles thinks that he sees Daniel pause and incline his head, but his father leans in and whispers something to him. Whatever he said made the boy hurry up.

Alex and Charles watch them leave through the lobby.

"Are you sure that it's enough?"

"I'm not, but it can't hurt," shrugs Charles. "I'd suggest stirring the waters officially. But you told me that you can't make a false public statement, so — "

"Yeah, my hands are tied with this one."

"I'd like to meet the other two kids," says Charles, turning around, when words get stuck in his throat, because here is Erik, deep in the conversation with the Chief of Police.

Erik is wearing a sharp grey suit, which reminds Charles of the times they were working together. Next to him, Alex makes a surprised noise.

But when the two of them come closer Charles sees that Erik's face is still badly pale and the suit doesn't quite fit him as it used to.

"Sir, you are back!" exclaims Alex, startling Charles and the other men.

"Summers," Erik nods, but looks at Charles instead.

"This is a good opportunity, Lehnsherr," Shaw doesn't look particularly pleased when he finishes their conversation and turns to Summers. "My office."

After Alex and Shaw disappear, Charles realizes that Erik and he haven't exchanged a word yet. Erik looks like he is on the verge of saying something, but hesitates. Charles, in his turn, feels the recent panic rising up again. This break he is going to take will be long, he decides.

"Would you," Erik pauses mid-sentence. "Would you like to grab a coffee?"

Charles looks at him dubiously until the meaning of his words registers.

"I'd love to," he hurries to say. "Is it—"

"No, no. Coffee is hellish here," Erik says with a small smirk, almost plaintively. "Let's head out."

They end up in a small café opposite the station. Amidst wicked loft furniture and quiet background music, Charles can't relax his grip on the mug. Once he stops clasping it, his hands will start shaking. This is all that he deserves for being a sorry mess and avoiding his problems. He thinks back to Emma questioning him — _what you aren't feeling?_ Well, that was very smart of her as he sees now.

"I wanted to apologize," Erik is talking meanwhile, unaware of Charles spiraling into depth of whatever abyss he's been digging for himself. "That's not a very nice excuse, but I just couldn't — "

"Erik," Charles manages. "Sorry to interrupt, but can we, please, have this conversation, which, uh, you're trying to initiate, later?"

To his immense surprise, Erik nods. He has no idea how much Charles would like to beg him to lend at least some of his calm at the moment.

"What is Summers up to?" Erik gives him a searching look, wordlessly asking whether this question is okay and the shift in his attitude strikes Charles.

Because, if there was a universal constant, it was Erik's determined, wary and aggressive nature. Not that Charles didn't recognize a caring person beneath. But, this…

"We're trying to make them reveal themselves," breathes out Charles and tells Erik about his suspicions, about orchestrated lying and the need to find a person responsible for this.

"You spook everybody and hope that someone reacts? Summers never fails to surprise me," he drawls, which is a familiar reaction and it puts Charles at ease. Somewhat.

"What would you suggest?"

"Now? Watch them."

"Watch as — "

"As stake out. But no one from the department can do it without proper authorization. New rules: these days you can't even stalk people properly," laments Erik mockingly and Charles smiles, because he feels that Erik is trying for his sake. It's quite sweet.

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###

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Charles pulls his laptop from his bag and balances it on his knees.

"You weren't joking," mutters Erik from the passenger seat and Charles huffs indignantly.

"Of course, I wasn't," he presses a power button. "You, my friend, have no idea how little time I can waste."

"And what are you going to do, while you're staking out a suspect's house?"

"I'll probably start with updating the curriculum requirements. And then move on to my grant money report, review some post docs papers. Did I mention that I'm starting a textbook of my own?"

"Fantastic."

Erik scoffs.

"You don't say so. And what do you usually do when you are stalking?"

"I actually pay attention to my surroundings."

"See, it's nice that you've decided to join me."

Erik doesn't contribute anything else to the conversation, that's why it dies out on its own and Charles is glad that he has been blessed with a neighbor so quiet, that he might as well not share the same car space with him. He gets immersed in his work and lifts his head only when his laptop battery produces a warning flash. Charles saves his work and turns to Erik.

True to his word, Erik is watching the Smith's house, which is the only house with lit windows at this hour. Charles has never been to this part of town before, though it's relatively close to University park. Unlike his street, the cottages here are all the same: they are built with almost no spaces between separate houses, so it's no wonder that Smiths were overheard.

"Erik?"

Erik hums, indicating that he's listening.

"Are you really back? To work?"

"I don't know."

"Okay."

"I haven't decided yet," Erik has mercy on him. "The evaluation was yesterday."

Charles bites his tongue to stifle an automatic exclamation, which seems far from appropriate.

"I didn't pass."

"Oh? I'm sorry, Erik."

"That part was expected."

"What wasn't?"

Apparently, that is a wrong question, because Erik falls silent.

"I think, Charles, that listening to someone else's problems is the last thing you need right now," Erik turns to him.

Charles feels the urge to hide, to lower his gaze, though Erik probably can't see much in the almost dark insides of the car.

"I didn't realize," Erik says harshly and then his voice softens. "It must have been very hard for you."

Unable to bear it any longer, Charles pushes his laptop to the side, uncaring, and opens the door. He doesn't get out of the car gracefully, but at least he doesn't fall flat on his face.

That would have been the last straw.

At that mental imagery, he laughs, quietly. Shivers rock his body so hard that he wraps his hands around himself and props his back against the car. There's that familiar ringing in his ears. Again.

When Erik draws him close and puts his arms around him, Charles doesn't want to let him at first. He struggles out of Erik's embrace, but, evidently, between the two of them Erik is in possession of the superior mental fortitude. That's how he wins in the end. Not through words, — though Erik is surely saying something and Charles can see his lips moving, — but, even injured, Erik wins through brute force and sheer determination. Charles thinks it's really funny and laughs again.

He spends a little eternity shaking in Erik's arms.

After a while it subsides a little and he pats Erik on the back.

"I'm good. Fine. You may let go," his voice is raspy as hell and he coughs to clear his throat.

"Charles," Erik squeezes his shoulder in a tight grip. "I know PTSD when I see it. Why didn't you… No. Fuck. I mean, _you_ of all people?"

"I know. I know," Charles repeats harshly, defensively.

"No, don't listen to me. Forget what I said. It's not your fault, you hear me? Sometimes this shit happens. It's not something you can control."

Erik would be excellent at this, muses Charles darkly and wonders where he learnt about it. It's definitely not common among regular cops.

At three o'clock the sound of car engine revving up would startle even someone less composed than Charles. When he hears it behind his back, he draws in a breath and follows Erik's lead when Erik tugs him down.

As they are crouching behind Charles' car, Smith is taking off into unknown direction.

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	4. Chapter 4

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Erik instructs him to follow Smith from afar, just to know where he is going. That could have been simpler, weren't the roads almost absolutely deserted. At least, don't let him see you in a rear-view mirror — teaches Erik.

Charles thinks that the sleeping town passes by as though diffused by rare white and gold glow. The stripes of light get captured and stretched in his peripheral vision. His heart is thumping hard, knocking against ribcage, because he honestly can't believe he is doing it: the entire experience is very, very bizarre.

"I can't believe he fell for it," Erik murmurs quietly and then says. "No, you're going too fast. Slow down."

Charles does as he is told. A few cars whoosh past him, and he falls back, eyes on the road, his hands so tight around the wheel that he'll probably have a hard time letting go.

"He's leaving the town," says Charles unnecessarily when Smith's car takes a turn at the road sign welcoming to Glirham. He gets impossibly colder inside when he realizes that Mark was found along the same road, in the woodlands.

They pass the intersection and Smith speeds up. He takes a fist turning to his left not too soon. Charles slows his car, so that it is almost crawling behind, while he is busy racking his brain for their location. In the light provided by dipped beams, the road is but a narrow asphalt reptile with a cracked spine, arching and twisting like a temperamental beast.

"There should be a pond somewhere here," says Erik helpfully.

He is hunched over his phone, texting someone quickly — Charles can spot the new messages popping up on the screen.

Half a mile into the woods and Charles turns off all lights as the road clears and as his eyes get slowly reaccustomed to night scenery. Gaps between the trees let him focus on the car and the man exiting it. He hopes that he did everything right, stopped right before the clearing in order to hide their presence. A sheet of water, that must be the pond, looks remarkably dull. Its' surface is black and greasy and a full moon above it looks cartoonish.

Charles then glances at Erik, apprehensively, and when their eyes meet in the bluish light of Erik's phone, he reads a suggestion in the other's eyes to which he replies with a headshake.

"Splitting up is a bad idea in all movies I've seen," tries to joke Charles and Erik rolls his eyes, unimpressed. It's unfair how unperturbed he appears to be.

"I texted Summers," he confirms Charles' guess. "Right now we have two options: go back and come back with a forensic team in the morning or follow him in case he's meeting someone or trying to destroy the evidence. The second option is illegal and can arise many questions in court."

"That's why you want me to stay behind?"

This staking out is practically layered with complications Charles didn't consider before.

"That too."

"Well, it's too late for that," Charles leans over Erik to snatch a flashlight from a glove compartment, praying for this bout of adrenaline-induced courage to linger some more.

When they close in to the pond and the car, Charles takes a proper look around. There is a lonely electric column, towering over the pond, and when Charles risks a glance up he notices that it is long dismantled, for no wires stretch into distance. A bulky structure that resembles a power station is clearly abandoned. The graffiti on white-washed walls is peeling off. Someone must have searched it through, he thinks, because it is in two mile radius from the crime scene, right?

They are lucky that Smith is not trying to be quiet. He has somehow found a way inside that power station and his flashlight is dancing in there in a mad fashion.

Erik and he circle the structure from the other side to get to a window by the hill, and it's Charles who sees it before Erik steps on it, so he grabs the back of Erik's jacket and Erik freezes on the spot.

"What's that?" Charles whispers, squatting over something protruding from the ground, right there Erik's foot could have been a moment ago.

What he sees under moonlight is odd, but it's that smell, pungent and mixed with a tinge of sickening sweetness, that nearly makes him gag. A skull is peeking out from the dirty ground, its' jaw wide open and teeth bared. One eyehole is empty, but there's some stirring in the other one, where the remnants of flesh are sticking to bone. Sleek, black bugs dart out of that hole all of the sudden and Charles reels back.

"This is probably just a dead dog," hisses Erik and hoists him up. "Come on."

"If this is just a dog, where is the rest of the body?" whispers Charles back.

He feels stupid for overreacting, but when he looks down at the skull propped on the empty expanse of muddy bank his reaction seems justified.

Seeing that Erik is already standing by the large window arch, Charles joins his side. From here they can discern frustrated swearing and a shrill sound of metal scraping against metal. Intrigued and wary, Charles wants to lean closer, but Erik raises up a hand and makes a weird gesture, which, Charles assumes, must mean something akin to stay put. Erik is the one who leans in to peek over the edge.

When he leans back, Charles' taut nerves nearly snap, because he doesn't say anything at first. Meanwhile, the scraping noises turn into splashing, then into something, which, to Charles cautious ears, sounds like urinating. He gags again, assaulted with revulsion — so soon after that horrible smell. As he tries to keep down nausea, tension cramps his throat.

"Erik," he mouths, having no choice but to tug at Erik's sleeve.

"Need to stop him," whispers Erik so quietly, Charles almost misses it in distress.

Stopping Smith means searching for an entrance, and this is what Erik does, creeping around the building until they stand in front of an empty doorway with one rotten panel left.

"Get your flashlight ready," commands Erik quietly.

Their only weapon. Of course. Charles grabs it tightly and exhales sharply, forcefully pulling his focus outside his messy psyche.

From the looks of it, the building itself is divided into two sections, and Smith is in the second one, the door to which is on the left. They swiftly cover the distance and once they step through the doorway Charles switches on his flashlight and directs the beam right into Smith's face.

Smith, who is crouched by the heap of some rags, jumps up at Erik's "police" exclamation. But instead of raising his hands up, he grabs something from the floor and Charles steps in front of Erik, because his hind brain takes over, and something splashes all over his face, his hair, his chest and he is hit with a smell of gasoline.

Bugger, he thinks then: so, Smith was really trying to burn the evidence.

Smith darts at him, like a big, enraged bear, and Charles stumbles back, losing momentum, and when Smith collides with him, he promptly goes down.

He must have blacked out for a brief moment after the fall, because he coughs and blinks through nasty substance, clinging to his eyelashes, and then a hand twists his collar, and he is pulled up harshly, so that his back is off the ground.

Though his head is pounding and everything's blurry as hell, to his utmost horror, Charles discerns Smith leaning over him, and then his panicking, hazy gaze hones on a zippo lighter in Smith's hand. Blood is roaring in his ears. It feels like a turbulent flow is pulsating strongly inside his head and neck. He hates himself so much in this moment, he loathes his clumsiness, his weakness and especially the paralysis that cripples him from head to toe. His hands don't obey him and he would probably scream, but his voice is lost in the confines of his constricting throat.

His half-lidded eyes regard that tiny flame with doomed detachment. Through rhythmic beat of blood inside his ears, world begins filtering in.

"Don't you dare," rasps Smith, spluttering, and some spit lands on Charles' face, though this is the least of his worries.

"And you're going to do what?"

Erik is alive, what a relief, but he sounds breathless, as though he's wheezing.

"I lied. I'm not with police, but they are coming," explains Erik from somewhere to his right, Charles can't be sure. "This man you're trying to set on fire is just my neighbor. Why should I care if you do that?"

While Erik is talking nonsense, Charles' tension starts slipping away. He doesn't show it, tries not to, but he feels his arm again. Using this gifted moment of clarity, he clenches his hand into a fist and throws a punch with his left. He betted everything on it and has probably, somehow, passed a threshold of luck — his jab connects with his captor's jaw and pain flares up in Charles' hand upon the impact.

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###

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Initially grateful for the blanket, Charles was not so grateful for all that fussing. After the paramedic checked his eyes and his head, he asked, cautiously, why Charles has an older bump on his head. Charles paused in his grim musing then, and settled on a joke that didn't make the man laugh, but, instead, made him uncomfortable, so he left Charles' gasoline smelling self alone at last.

His hair has dried off in a somewhat slimy, tangled mess and nothing seems more appealing at this very moment than a hot shower and thorough soaping.

After Erik disappeared inside of that blasted power station with Alex, almost fifteen minutes have passed, which Charles has spent sitting in the ambulance. Now, he decides, his sitting time is up.

When he discards the stained and definitely smelly blanket and pushes the door of the ambulance open, Alex and Erik are right there, thankfully.

"Are you alright?"

"I'll live," Charles nods to Alex, who smirks a little.

Erik then offers him a hand, when he indicates that he wants to climb down. The hand is still there even after Charles blinks to clear his eyes and there is something in that gesture that just finishes Charles. He wants to defend himself, to state that he doesn't need any help, but he's also too tired to pretend, so an internal fight, which could have been intense and uncompromising, ends before it begins and he leans on the offered hand with a low thank you.

"I'll walk you to your car," tells him Alex casually and adds quieter, not to be overheard. "Please, make sure that you tell the right thing when someone asks what you were doing at this place, late at night. And they will ask, trust me."

"I wanted to investigate this place and asked Erik to accompany me?" ventures Charles groggily, pouring his focus on putting one foot in front of the other, and so on and so forth.

By his side, Erik produces a deep sigh, a burst of poised disapproval.

"We'll think of something credible, Summers," assures him Erik.

"Please, do."

The dawn will be breaking soon. Rich, mushy darkness is as thick as it can get, since the moon has hidden behind heavy clouds, but that obscurity is the exact sign of the night's sure surrender.

When they stop next to Charles' car and Alex turns to go, Charles, conscious of insistent nagging in his mind, yields in and calls for Alex's attention. If he doesn't say it, this restless needle won't cease trying to pick at his thoughts.

"Could you, please, have a look at the skull? By the wall facing the south. It's quite visible and you can't miss it."

Alex almost does a double take.

"It's a dog, Summers," reassures Erik.

"Thank fuck," breathes out Alex and looks across at Charles, dismayed. "Don't scare me like that, Professor."

As Alex's parting words are ringing in his head, Charles sinks into a driver's seat with a wince: his back is sore, full of stabbing little pains, and, in spite of his best intentions, he can't help but jostle it and the back of his head as well.

To be completely honest, there's a special kind of tacit, serene appeal in driving through the night. Especially, when it comes to driving home. This ride could have been peaceful, yet Charles can't help noticing, more like feeling, that Erik is wallowing in thoughtful gravity, reluctant to talk. And, even in case Charles' insistence might prove unwelcome, he shatters a long suspended stretch of silence without regretting it too much.

"Erik, please, talk to me or I'll fall asleep at the wheel," his plea is enhanced by the yawn he covers with his bruised hand.

"There could be worse ways to die," says Erik with superficial sarcasm, through which Charles observes guarded resentment.

"Why didn't you — No, forget it. What did Smith try to get rid of? I didn't quite manage to have a proper look."

"Clothes, rags, something like that. Very muddy, so difficult to say right now… Were most likely hidden in a dent in the floor, covered with a sheet of metal, that's why it was difficult to tell that something was there upon your ordinary search. Forensics will deal with it."

"He seems, um, seemed much too desperate," Charles begins thinking aloud, tumbling down the proverbial hypothesizing road. He had his coping pattern figured out long ago and Erik's willing to listen presence is just a pleasant, if a tad unexpected, bonus. "Attacking us like that would only make whatever situation he's found himself in worse. It makes no sense. Mark's murder screams intention, plan, execution, with a great deal of sadistic satisfaction. There's a thrill in it, a powerful impulse, vindictive retaliation, I'd say, but the nature of that sort of impulse is quite different."

"We'll see," Erik mutters under his breath, as he's dragging his words in a way that can't be intentional. "Good thing is — Summers finally has someone in custody."

"But not a murderer," presses Charles with earnestness.

"He could have killed you today and earned that title."

For a second or so, Charles is tempted, but he genuinely fears that banter would do them both no good. Yes, an oncoming argument might be cathartic in a way, but it isn't advisable when both of them are, well, roughed up by a suspect and exhausted.

The rain starts abruptly, rudely, as if the sky bowels have just burst open and water broke free. Windshield glass immediately gets blurry under powerful onslaught and Charles has to peer at the road extra carefully, because even with wipers on, the roadway looks like a bad aquarelle, that with luminous splashes of light standing out too bright and too sharp amidst fuzzy darkness. The feeling of isolation is piercing. And very, very intimate. It weighs Charles down, then blows out of proportions and tugs on an inkling of the truth, which was asleep, hidden. It then occurs to him that he'd gladly stay in such a glorious, suspended moment forever.

"The rain, of course. That's why I was so sleepy," says Charles, barely above a whisper, afraid of breaking a tender spell.

In a heartbeat or two, it seems as though they are driving through a sea.

Turning his head, and it hurts him to do so, Charles looks at Erik. And finds him asleep.

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###

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Charles sincerely thought he would be able to function properly on two hours of sleep, but, upon waking up to his alarm clock, he immediately knew that his conviction was completely made-up. As if he had any choice, except of cramming his exhaustion back in the casket where it dared to crawl from.

He flips on his side, turning away from invasive sunlight, streaming through window in generous patches, and his spine doesn't thank him for a movement. Despite every bone and tissue screaming at him to get more rest, he drags his body into a bathroom. There is really no way to test whether he still reeks of gasoline or no, because even if the smell lingered, he would be too accustomed to it to detect anything. One more shower with that vanilla extract won't hurt, he decides.

During a seminar, he is wary of the urge to shut his eyes, standing and talking simultaneously is impossible to the point that he has to sit at the desk all the time and prop his tremendously heavy head with his hand. Students, on the contrary, are unfairly chirpy and bubbly today, as though last night's rainfall came and magically washed all their worries away.

At the cafeteria door, some man on the phone just walks straight into his shoulder, barely pauses enough to sneer at him, before striding away. Charles thinks that this man has a reason to be cross.

Jean attracts his attention by being the brightest, in all senses, human being in the entire room. She waves at him from her merry perch at the counter, where she's beaming, practically bouncing on her seat, and Charles wonders again what is it with most people being cheery today. It should be pointed out, that, if not for his physical pains and aches and his precautious, panic-prone mental balance, he'd gladly become infected with the same mood. Instead of willing to slump dead to the ground and be done with the day, that is.

Coffee grants him an ashy, fractional presence of mind, grounding him in merciless reality of an incoming publishing deadline and attending department colloquia later in the afternoon.

"What is it?" he sighs, dropping any preamble, when Jean gives him another funny squint.

He isn't completely clueless of his deviant look; he just muses idly, what part of his overall appearance can tint her cheeks with a pink flush.

She raises a brow, a smile tugging her lips in a bow.

"Your cologne. It's," she stops to pick a proper word, humming meanwhile, "so sweet."

"Are you sure you can't smell any petrochemical residue?" asks Charles, pursuing the topic.

Jean shifts in her seat, like a change of posture may help her deal with imminent confusion.

"No, there's nothing like that," she answers seriously and Charles likes her a bit more.

"This will be a story for another day," he promises deftly and looks at his watch, "because I have to go."

He quickly covers the steps up to the conference hall, whilst his phone buzzes once, twice. For all the world, Charles ignores it stoically, blanketing his curiosity, but, at the same time, anticipating the caller to be Alex.

Coming to a stop by the dark oak doors, Charles runs his fingers through his hair, which, as per his earlier observations, is the best way to tame it. Aiming for unobtrusive, he pushes the doors open and slides in. Quite a few heads turn to him, but Diana just nods and Charles takes his designated seat.

Coffee can help, but it can't enforce miracles and by the end of the hour, Charles struggles to keep his eyes open. The troubled daze unlocks itself when he looks up from scanning the context of his folder and sees Mark standing right in front of him. He almost chokes. Mark's visage is deathly pale, though unmarked by earthly means; everything about his slack features, glassy eyes, bloodless lips yells dead right into Charles' face. It rings like a desperate warning and a shock running through Charles' frame jostles him a bit.

Fortunately for Charles, he can cover up his minute slip by standing and then grabbing a glass of water with less than steady hand.

Truth be told, his hand itches for his phone instead.

And yet, he's only able to spare some time whilst waiting for a taxi to arrive, too worn out to bear the commute by bus. Seated on the bench by the fountain, with wood digging into his sore back and therefore effectively keeping him awake, he feeds a raving curiosity demon by pressing a dial.

"Smith refuses to speak," says Alex sullenly.

Charles ponders quietly, that though it's not in detectives' best interests, he can understand and condone this kind of behavior.

"About the dog," Alex huffs, whether with vexation or wariness, or, maybe, an unhealthy mixture of both. "Someone buried it in the ground. Only a head was left out. It's hard to tell, but, a guy from Forensics says the dog might have been alive when buried. He didn't spot any bone damage. It might have died of exposure, dehydration or whatever… Christ, it's sick."

The truth is, Charles expected something like this. That's why he suspected that the skull was worth additional regarding, so to say.

"Let's look at these two crimes stripped of everything, but core points, shall we?" he offers.

"I'm listening."

"One: somebody, or somebodies, let's not ignore that option, take their time beating up a teenager to death. Probably, rendering him defenseless in advance, hence clothes. Second act goes like this. Again, it probably goes, we are not sure, but let's presume. Someone takes a dog to a remote place and digs up a hole in the ground to put the animal there. One needs tools for that. My point is the following: what unites these deeds? Is it prolonging the other's pain on purpose?"

"Yes, you are right," grunts Alex.

"To be the master and tyrant of any animal is a continuous charge of sadistic satisfaction. There is the same dynamic thinking behind these two, I believe. And, well, in addition you must know that you might be looking for someone with a remarkable functional capacity."

"I see what you mean," Alex grunts in acknowledgment again.

"I don't want to jeopardize your work by wrongly assuming that these are connected, but the location just might be a key."

"I kind of hope you're right. That bastard. They always start with animals, right? Then, move to people?"

"Not necessarily. The mechanism is, well, more complex, so to say," remarks Charles.

"Complex, you say? Okay, that's right. Well, what I know is that we have a real, tangible lead and a suspect, who refuses to talk. See you tomorrow?"

"Yes. See you."

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It must be them: Mrs. Smith and her son Daniel, perched on uncomfortable, plastic chairs next to the door Charles is going to enter. Daniel's head is thrown backwards, headphones in his ears, his eyes shut and his features twisted in an odd rigid state of half-frown. She, a petite brunet in well-fitting clothes, looks up at Charles, when he approaches and there's a lifetime worth of guilt in her raw, red-rimmed eyes. A blaze of naked fear flashes through her dull gaze so fast, that if no one were looking for it on purpose, they wouldn't have noticed. Yet, Charles did.

As he turns the handle, he offers her a polite nod, which, to his surprise, she returns with a crude, twisted semblance of a smile. This little exchange coils his gut it a nasty knot, because here is a person trained to please the others in spite of her own pain and Charles wonders whether there will come a day, when he stops reacting to such signs with helpless anger.

Inside, Danielle, Rose and Alex seem to be arguing in subdued voices. However, they cease to, as soon as Charles comes in and Rose is the first one to greet him civilly. Charles dons his coat on the hanger, while Alex is walking him through the motions.

"I'll take your statement first. Then, we'll try talking to Smith together."

"Who is going to interview his family?"

"Rose will," Alex chances a look at Rose as she leaves the room, fetching a stack of folders from her desk.

"Is Lehnsherr coming back?" prods Alex in lieu of an ice-breaker.

"He didn't tell me," shrugs Charles, silently digesting a simple question, which doesn't appear so simple when he thinks about it.

"It's a mystery of the week. I thought he would. Tell you, I mean."

Charles is astonished by the implication in Alex's words. Halting for an instance, he recollects his last conversation with Erik, and more importantly, the one they didn't have for a very sober reason.

After the statement is signed and done, Alex leads him to the interrogation room, where Smith is already waiting.

Charles certainly didn't expect his punch to engraft the man's face with that much bruising. He thinks, that might be Erik, actually, because in that fraction of second when Smith's head snapped to the side, Charles was only able to summon enough strength to wiggle out of grip and roll away from the lighter. That's why he didn't witness a brief, yet, by all means, violent scuffle, which occurred in the darkness that fell after Erik snatched Smith's lighter.

"We confirmed that the remnants of clothes, which you were trying to burn, belonged to Mark Evans," states Alex upon dropping the case folder on the table.

It lands with a pronounced, dreadful finality and in the perfect world a confession would follow, but that was not the case.

This means nothing to him, decides Charles, for he already knows what happened to Mark and he has no intention to spill the secret. There should be a way to pluck the ground from under his feet, to leave him doubting the merit of his silence.

"Well then, I have a question for you, sir," speaks Charles with levity, borrowed from sleep deprivation. "Please, tell us how you feel about pets?"

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	5. Chapter 5

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Owning to late hour, Charles' eyes are hallway to closing. At such a time, right after midnight, it used to be common for him to catch up on his academic reading before bed. Dozing off this early is a result of a naturally mounting stress, he believes. Those recent events have gone far to shake his fortitude. Content to cradle a mug of tea for now, he is mentally replaying today's, no, they are already yesterday's conversations. He twists his body to the side and winces slightly when he pulls at his bruised back.

"A pillow?" offers someone and Charles refocuses his eyes on Erik, who is currently sitting, hunched, on Charles' sofa.

He is holding up a cushion, obviously expecting Charles to take it. For the most part, Charles is fairly bewildered, he can't grasp the adequate reality, but then his manners kick in, for that would be uncivilized to prolong his silent staring. He leans forward, over the coffee table between them, and grabs the offered pillow, which is technically the cushion and, balancing a mug on one knee, puts it behind his back. This armchair has always been his favourite, yet it can't be denied that it lacks the kind of plushness he needs at the moment.

"You've been silent for a while," says Erik, voice wrapped in muted concern. "That tired, huh?"

"Sorry," Charles smiles sheepishly, taking a careful sip.

Erik's mug is standing on the coffee table, empty, — he notices with peculiar clarity. He is one of those daring souls, who prefer their drinks scalding hot, and whose ability to not burn mouth has intrigued him since forever.

"Where was I? Right," Charles resumes talking. "Smith tried glaring me to death. He snapped when I mentioned the dead dog, but, well, the thing is, they don't have any pets. They used to when the son, Daniel, was younger. I'm not making a lot of sense, I'm afraid?"

"No, you're fine."

"If you say so. Well, his wife keeps repeating that he's not guilty. Yet she can't say why he was doing what he was doing: getting rid of evidence. She keeps silent about that and it comes as no surprise. As for their reported arguments, she shifts the responsibility on to herself. She let it slip that they do it a lot, because Herman, that's his name by the way, has got a short fuse. But, she claims, those specific moments come and go very fast and he always, yes, she stressed that, always regrets his harsh words and apologizes afterwards."

"Looks classic to me," huffs Erik.

"Indeed."

Erik hums quietly.

"They didn't let me talk to the boys yet."

"Those two sidekicks?"

"Yes, them. Parents are sick and tired of police meddling and I can understand them, but," Charles shakes his head. "Aren't they worried? Don't they want to investigate this terrible murder and prevent it from happening ever again?"

"You are from the different place and it shows."

"What do you mean?"

"You've got the wrong kind of ethical framework."

Charles tries and fails to understand. The point Erik has made is slipping from him.

"Pardon me?"

"It's the town, Charles," Erik shakes his head.

His eyes are cast down, as if his sole mission is to burn his stare into the floor, and Charles can't read him as well as he'd like to.

"What about the son?" speaks Erik again, looking up.

Charles welcomes the question he can actually answer.

"He's an odd fellow."

Charles realizes that he's biting his lips, a nervous habit, which resurfaces at the most unexpected times, and it's still difficult to refrain from doing that.

"How do you define odd?" asks Erik, after a pause.

"He's very observant. Smart, but not a hard-worker, according to his teachers."

"Matured early?"

"Seems so. Actually, now I can picture a connection between him and Mark. Even though Daniel is from a comparatively well-to-do family, at least if comparing to Mark, they must carry similar burdens and grieves."

There is something unaccountable, just beneath the surface. Also, Charles can't but compare two mothers, Mark's and Daniel's, those two kinds of sorrow they are being subjected to, vital pieces of life reaped away in an instant.

"What's your plan now?"

"I don't have any."

"Can hardly believe it."

"I have none right now. Maybe, there's one notion. But I need to think this through carefully as you see. "

"Oh, yes, I do now."

Charles stifles the urge to snort, rather intensified by his drowsiness, because Erik wants to provoke him into jumping down the sarcasm hole, like Erik tends to; only Charles doesn't have any spare strength left for it. Once again, he performs an evasive maneuver, wary of Erik initiating a banter.

"What about you, my friend? How have you been?" asks Charles empathetically, stirring the conversation away from the tricky current.

"Aside from our nightly escapade, everything's been the same. It's hard to admit, but all excitement in my life is suddenly tied to you," says Erik in mock defeat.

The mood in the space between them has suddenly transfigured into a subtle, incorporeal shroud, which dims perception and mellows all lights. Charles is strongly tempted to let it linger, because he likes seeing that small smile on Erik's face and emotion in his eyes. It's splendidly good. And there has been a serious deficiency of splendid in Charles' life.

"I probably should go to bed," he admits, crushed by realization what time it is and how many things are on the tomorrow's to-do list. Thus he singlehandedly tears down the comfort shroud, prompts Erik to school his features and get to his feet.

However, after he says that, he comes to the sad conclusion that the armchair has taken him hostage – he can't just leave it like that. Erik saves the day, or, should he say, the night.

"Let me clean up," Erik picks up his mug and reaches for Charles'.

"You're the best guest I've had the pleasure of inviting," Charles smiles.

"I'm your only guest, Charles," parries Erik smugly.

"You are," echoes Charles softly and for a split second is precisely focused on a warm feeling engraving itself into his chest, like a seal of gratitude and appreciation.

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Mark's school is hidden from the main road, neatly squeezed between a kindergarten and a somewhat shabby garden center.

Its' columns and fancy patios hint that the school was renovated or rebuilt. Charles dares assume it used to be some late nineteenth century mansion, judging by the overall look, but he's not that much of an expert. As he's walking towards the entrance, the sun leaps from behind the clouds and hits his oversensitive sleep-deprived eyes. His eyes tear up a bit and he lowers them down, blinking obligatory dark spots away.

Inside the building, the air is cool and full of unseen human presence, lingering within monumental walls. This eerie presence reminds him of University, for these two places seem to be ultimately frozen in time, just like long gone, pre-historic beasts. Well, if only in his imagination.

He finds a designated office rather quickly.

Amy has just graduated before he arrived, and, therefore, they couldn't have met, but, the fact, that once he introduced himself on the phone, she immediately knew who he is and what he does, first made Charles confused and only, probably, a little flattered. These emotions would have come in reversed order if he were his normal self.

"It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Professor," she said, looking him up and down in a way, which was supposed to be discreet.

Fine, if that is how she wants to proceed.

"Oh no, we've made an agreement," Charles shakes his head, adopting a voice mode he usually reserves for places with dimmer lights and less sober mood than the office of a school psychologist. "I already call you Amy, so that's just Charles for you."

She accepts the offered handshake with a smile, which reveals nice dimples. And she is not half-bad. Smiley and fair-haired. Very easy on the eyes, indeed.

They chat a little bit about this and that, jumping from topic to topic.

"I realize you are here because of Daniel."

"Well, yes and no."

Her smile dims as though the power was suddenly cut short.

"I can't disclose anything. After parents vetoed it – "

"Yes, I already know. Inadmissible," Charles smiles lightly. "I'd hate to impose, yet I think you can help me. Would you like to take it elsewhere?"

Sun is now completely hidden behind the clouds, as they are walking along the street. In the cool shade of the outdoors it's easier to breathe.

She tells him how she obtained this job and the conversation spirals from here.

"It's a lot of pressure, you know. Children, families, press, board, community representatives."

"I understand," says Charles as they turn to a tiny square with tall pine trees. A pocket of ever green wonder within rein of asphalt and concrete.

They pass quite a few prams, pushed by mothers, who are either chattering with each other or talking on the phone. All of those prams are in cool shades of blue or vivid, wild pink and Charles absently thinks of bizarre colour distribution. Amy doesn't pay attention to them, as she doesn't seem to look where they are going.

"I really want to help, but I just, I just don't know, alright? I look at them, at these kids, and I just question myself why I'm doing this? Like at all?"

"You can't really account for everything or everyone," he smiles softly.

She glowers at the ground and Charles does so too.

There's a string of ants traveling through the footpath beneath their feet, but she proceeds walking, not seeing that. Charles looks at the chaos and distress of the ant squad with regret.

"You may not say anything. It's inadmissible anyways," Charles stops and she so does she. "Just hear me out."

She nods, very serious.

"They are lying. All three of Mark's so-called friends. There are many reasons for this. Hypothetically speaking. But, I think, all of us didn't even consider narrowing it down. There was always enough to come to this conclusion. But, the problem is, this is a fleeting, very simple idea, that seems too horrible to comprehend," he sees the widening of her large green eyes and the slight tremble of her chin and it's enough of an answer on its own.

"What are you going to do?" she nearly whispers at him and Charles speaks with confidence, which is not quite there.

"I believe, it's my job to test my assumptions."

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The idea to call Erik was good and bad at the same time.

"You shouldn't go without Summers," he states bluntly.

Charles stops at the crossing, waiting for the green light. He watches a group of laughing kids, who trot along the street opposite him. They are making loud, energetic noises, which make his internal, order-loving adult quiver and cringe in disapproval.

"I asked Alex to сall me back and told him the same I'm telling you," offers Charles to calm Erik down.

He called Alex and left a voicemail, but that was it. He still didn't call back.

"He'd better come," grumbles Erik. "Fuck this. You might be right."

"I'm afraid so."

The green light is finally on, so he steps from the pavement onto the road. He wants to tell Erik to stop worrying, but he concludes, in time, that Erik probably doesn't even register it.

"Sorry, have to go," Erik's voice gets distorted by static.

"Of course. Will I see you tonight?"

"Sure," immediately agrees Erik.

"Drinks?"

"Why not?"

"Hold on, aren't you doing physical therapy? Maybe, we shouldn't," second-guesses himself Charles.

"I decided to take it slow."

Charles practically hears a rueful smirk in the last one. After pocketing his phone, he fixes his eyes on the rows of brick houses. He is just approaching the very spot he had parked his car when Erik and he were staking out the Smiths.

Erik's warning stirs him, despite being exaggerated in nature. What kind of life has Erik had? Where does his need to overthink danger come from? Is it solely occupational? Or is there more to it?

He stops by the street lamp, which flickers to life. As he is standing there, motionless, glancing at the Smith's house, he is mulling over his decision. He suddenly thinks that his passion to set things right has not done him a lot of good over the past year. He has considered it his moral duty, his obligation. When he started his own investigation of the missing girls, when he confronted Erik with his findings, when he pushed himself to seek answers, unaware of the price he and the others would have to pay, this need always drove him forward. It brought meaning to his life. But that meaning was accompanied by tragedy.

Thinking like that made Charles look at everything he's been doing with fresh eyes.

This is, by no means, a very good drive, but, well, there's time to tune it down. These musings, it feels like they opened up an energy reserve within him. They might as well.

He smiles to himself. Charles shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and takes one last look at the house before turning away. Erik was right. Well, he won't admit that out loud, because he thinks that Erik might enjoy it too much.

His smile slips and he stills mid-motion. What is this? Right in that window?

He strides across the street as though put under the spell. Yes, he confirms upon coming closer. The flickers of flame visible through the window are not his imagination.

While running to the front door he snatches the phone from inside of his pocket and dials the emergency number. He exchanges a few rushed phrases with an operator, whilst switching between pounding and pressing a door bell.

Finally, noise attracts some attention and an elderly man in a tracking suit peeps out over the fence.

"Where's the back door?" cries Charles, but the man just continues gaping at him.

Charles curses his bad luck, the unforgivably sturdy door and the narrow passage between the houses, which he has to squeeze through to get to the back of the house. His phone starts buzzing in his hand and Charles pretty much swipes it without thinking.

"I've got your message," says a voice in his ear.

"Alex, I'm right here. There's fire inside Smith's house. I can't see much, but," Charles' eyes frantically search for the back door in the dark until he finds it and covers the distance to it in a few steps.

As he is pulling at the handle, Alex's words get tuned out by pounding in his ears.

The door is closed too. Charles twists the handle, feeling that it's stuck, it won't give in.

"It's stuck," Charles says harshly.

"I'm on my way. Are you sure that there's fire inside?"

"Yes, I checked. Curtains are half drawn, but it can't be anything else. What if someone is still in the house?"

Alex reacts with a fierce exclamation and ends the call.

If there was something good about having his house broken into, it was the amount of research Charles has done on breaking and entering. He immersed himself into reading forums, technical guides and tutorials and the locked door stirred his memory. He quickly scrutinized the handle and the deadlock above it, lighting the door with his phone: the handle is brass, maybe hardened brass, polished in the middle, the deadlock looks new in comparison. Funny thing, the door with the hardened lock has visible hinges, rusty and much older than the lock itself.

Charles looks around, frantic, and spots a pair of garden shears, peeking out of the bucket.

Desperation lends him strength and precision when he aims at the hinges. The door opens inside and Charles carelessly inhales some smoke. It's not much, not yet.

The back door leads to the kitchen.

He pulls his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose and proceeds right into the hall. The fire has started there. Through thick, acid smoke, Charles sees curtains already caught by flames, a smoldering leather sofa and an armchair. But what strikes him the most is a pile on the large round table. Something is burning there and it's been burning well. Fire roars, up and up, almost grazing the ceiling. Charles takes one more look at it, and just when he's hesitating what to do the table breaks into two and the pillar plummets to the floor, roaring even stronger than before.

Charles coughs, hard. As he climbs the stairs to the second floor, he regrets dropping the shears in the kitchen. What if there are more closed doors?

The first one he swings open leads to the bedroom with a neatly made double bed. No one.

He darts to the second door, whilst smoke starts intensifying and pushes it and stills in the doorway, pressing his hand over his scarf.

Daniel is lying in bed and his mother is flattening the covers over his unmoving body. Her hand moves in a smooth, compulsory motion, pressing down gently but surely and Charles, arrested by the bizarre gestures, snaps back when she raises her head and turns to him.

Her eyes already bare that empty far-away look Charles has seen among the Grey Yard tenants.

She smiles, sheepish.

"I know what your son has done," words fight their way through his tight throat.

There is hardly a reason to search, to uncover the exact moment when evil sprouts to life. If it's ignored, it becomes condoned. If it becomes condoned, it grows.

She tilts her head in a way, that indicates that she is listening. Smoke rolls in and Charles can't help coughing. Daniel's mother seems immune to it.

Charles leans over the bed to check the boy's breathing. Daniel's skin is cold to touch and his heartbeat is barely there.

"Let him sleep," she grabs Charles' hand and tries to tug him back. "Please, let him sleep."

Charles hears the sirens, splitting the silence, and he makes up his mind.

"Yes, of course. Let's not disturb him, shall we?"

She takes his offered hand and he leads her out of the door, down the stairs, where they meet a fireman.

"There's a boy upstairs, second door to your right," Charles rasps and the man rushes past him, while his colleagues help Charles navigate through singe and heat.

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When his door bell goes off, Charles is only pulling off his pullover on the way to the washing machine. He listens to the merry sound half fondly, half weary. Of course, the fondness wins and he goes back to open his door.

He won't lie. He rather enjoys how Erik's neutral expression is bleeding into a shocked one and how he catalogues all visual clues. Starting from smudges on Charles' face to his red eyes and strong smell of smoke, which seems to be absorbed by his clothes and even by his hair and skin.

"Wait," Charles speaks roughly, before Erik has a chance to utter a word. "Good news is – it's the end."

"And bad?" asks Erik immediately.

"Daniel is in the hospital with some medication overdose."

Erik gives him a look.

"His mother did it. She… she just," Charles runs his fingers through his hair as words refuse to come to his aid.

"There is a fire somewhere in this story?"

"Yes, obviously," Charles feels light-headed, as though his spirit struggles to leave the body, and the body holds it back by a threat.

"Lord," Erik shakes his head. "Go to bed, Charles. You look like hell."

Charles loosens his grip on the door handle, as he is getting possessed by the strange feeling of wooziness. In one delusional moment Erik's visage almost warps out completely and he recoils a little when he feels himself enveloped in a warm hug. He pats Erik's back, shamelessly enjoying the comfort of Erik's touch.

"I'm very tired, but fine. Really fine," Charles mutters and Erik draws back. "If anything, I –"

He clasps his traitorous mouth shut, before any more words leave it.

"You weren't supposed to go there alone," points out Erik, with a very distinct motive.

"Oh, believe me or not, I was just passing by," Charles shrugs. "Yes, I realize how that must sound."

Erik leaves shortly afterwards and Charles does his best not to dwell on what has happened. Now, when he is alone, the expression in her dead, empty eyes comes back.

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The Grey Yard remains the same: massive complex in the woods, away from the highway and prying eyes. Charles knows that its massiveness is a trick for a fresh eye, for left wing is out of use and it should be a good thing, it should mean that institutions do their job, but it's not exactly the case.

"What can I say? Nice to have you back, Professor Xavier," Dr. Grey, no his name is not a coincidence as he likes to joke, stands up from his office chair to shake Charles' hand.

The man himself was cheerful enough to soften the influence of his large, overpowering figure. His persona managed to look too big even for his impressively spacious office.

"Great to see you in our fortress. How have you been?" he gives Charles another smile.

"Good. And you? How is your wife?"

"We're fine. Elaine is good. Do I need to remind you that the anniversary is closing in? You can't miss it!"

Charles doesn't need to say anything, because his confusion is apparently obvious.

"Our institution was founded two hundred years ago. Elaine has been planning quite a fundraiser in August," he says, gesticulating.

Is there another staff party approaching? Because, the previous one has landed Charles in the killer's path and since then he's reasonably, or unreasonably, wary of those particular gatherings.

"So, I was hoping to – "

"Yes, I remember," he interrupts Charles and makes the show of rolling up his eyes and smiling a wide apologetic smile simultaneously.

Charles smiles too, thinking of how Erik called him "overly neighborly" a few days ago. What would Erik say about Dr. Grey?

"She is still in the secure unit."

"Why?" asks Charles levelly. "She is not dangerous. You can't possibly claim that she's still suicidal. On the contrary, I don't recall recommending isolation. Helen is here to get aid and assistance, so that she can eventually go back to," he wanted to say family, but reconsidered, "her life."

"What life?" Grey latches on it. "The one, in which she tried to murder her own child?"

Charles is taken aback by a blunt tone and feels a brief instant of deep pity towards the man, whose family issues strengthened his bias. He has never been seeking out these gossips, but he heard whispers. It is a big town with a lot of secrets, but some of them aren't hidden all that well.

"We're neither judges nor jailers. And an ethical argument as I believe, is not something that can determine the category of treatment."

"She decided to kill her son. And kill herself for good measure," Grey regards Charles with intentionally stern face.

"Her husband abused her and their son, but he hasn't been locked up in the solitary. On the contrary, his lawyer has negotiated quite a good deal."

Charles thinks back to an interview with recovering Daniel, when he said that Mark has failed a dare and shouldn't have been such a wimp. When asked questions about his father, Daniel revealed a great deal of fear and contempt, trust and distrust, worship and scorn tightly crammed together.

Charles took a very long walk after that interview.

If there is evil in the family, it is bound to spread. It will reach outside, in the world. It will definitely touch those outside.

Like a stone dropped into murky waters, evil will leave expanding rings on the surface. Charles tried to explain it to Alex and his coworkers, to Erik, but he wasn't successful enough.

Right now, while talking to this man, Charles feels the chill. This chill makes him cognizant of the realization, that the fight, that very fight, is not over yet.

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End file.
